




















SKETCHES 


Y< 


OF 


lMERICAN character. 



BY MRS. SARAH J. HALE, 

AUTHOR OF NORTH WOOD j &C. 



“The genius of my country shall arise, 

A cedar towering o’er the wilderness — 

Wafting its native incense through the skies.” 

Byron. 

I 



PERKINS & PURVES, 134 CHESTNT 


1843. 

t 










* L 



DISTRICT OF MASSACHUSETTS, to wit: 

District Clerk’s Office. 

S^afn; as 1 " 4 f.SSL.'SJ 

ing, to wit : “® y s P ro P rlet °rs, m the words follow- 

ASrArawTodTe. 01 *"^"- by M “ S ' •>' ^ 

‘'fhe genius of my country shall arise, 

Waffi^ i?rn nng °’ er the w *l^rness- 

afnn 0 its na.we incense through the skies.’— Byron ” 

JtMed ”' « ?.' he State., 

ingthe copies of maps charts nv f^ m ^ ntof ,earnin &> b y secur- 
prietors of such conies duriV.Vrh^° kS ’ t0 , the authors a nd pro- 
and also to an act entitled -‘An a ,V mCS t ! iere,n mentioned 

and etching historical and other prims ” d gni ” g ’ en ‘ 

JOHN W DAVT«J 
Clerk of the District of Massachusetts 


\ 


\ 


CONTENTS. 


/ Walter Wilson. 

7 

The Soldier of the Revolution. 

26 

The Wedding and the Funeral. 

49 

Ann Ellsworth. 

81 

The Village Schoolmistress. 

102 

The Belle and the Bleu. 

129 

The Poor Scholar. 

147 

The Springs. 

179 

Prejudices. 

199 

The Apparition. 

217 

William Forbes. 

236 

A Winter in the Country. 

258 


1 * 





SKETCHES 


07 

AMERICAJY character. 


WALTER WILSON. 


“ If e’er thy heart incline to thoughts of Love, 

Think not to meet the gentle passion joined 

With pomp and greatness : Courts may boast of Beauty 

But Love is seldom found to dwell amongst them. 

He seeks the cottage in the tufted grove, 

The russet fallows, and the verdant lawns, 

The clear, cool brook, and the deep woody glade, 

Bright winter fires, and summer evening hues : 

These he prefers to gilded roofs and crowns. 

There he delights to pair the constant swain 
With the sweet, unaffected, virtuous maid : 

Here is his empire, here his choice to reign, 

Here, where he dwells with Innocence and Truth.” 

Rows. 

Travellers, who have made the tour of 
Europe, always dwell with peculiar delight on 
the sunny skies of Italy; and a host of domes- 
tic writers, never, perhaps, in the whole course 
of their existence, beyond that seeming boun- 
dary where their eyes first beheld the horizon 
apparently closing around them, join their 
voices in the chorus of the sunny skies of 
Italy! 

Let them lard their poems and stories with 
threadbare descriptions of the ‘ rosy twilight,’ 


8 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


and ( silvery moonbeams,’ and 1 gorgeous sun- 
rise’ — I confess, these copied delineations have 
little interest for me. — America, ‘my own, 
my native land ’ — O ! the rudest mountain, 
and wildest wood of thy varied landscape, 
is far dearer to my heart, and more inspiring 
to my imagination, than the sublime antiqui- 
ties and unrivalled natural charms of that 
clime, where ‘ all, save the spirit of man, is 
divine.’ It is the free expression of that spir- 
it, which, when irradiated by liberty, and in- 
structed by knowledge, is all but divine, that 
gives to Americans the^r peculiar characteris- 
tics. To exhibit some of those traits, origin- 
ated by our free institutions, in their manifold 
and minute effects on the minds, manners, and 
habits of the citizens of our republic, is the 
design of these Sketches. How icell the design 
is fulfilled, the decision of the public taste, 
must decide. 

Walter Wilson was the only child of a man 
who had once been an eminent merchant in 
Boston, but losses and misfortunes suddenly 
reduced him to bankruptcy, and he died, 
broken-hearted, before Walter had attained his 
seventh year. Mrs. Wilson, with her little boy, 
then retired to the house of her father, a good 
industrious farmer, residing in the county of 
Franklin; where she might have dwelt in quiet- 
ness, had not the elevation from which she 
had fallen, and which, in truth, she had not 
borne very meekly, continually mortified her 
pride. Her impatient repinings were not 
heard with much sympathy by her own family. 


WALTER WILSON. 


and she was driven as much by necessity as 
inclination, to pour forth her sorrows to her 
young son. However, it must be confessed, 
she dwelt quite as pathetically on the loss of 
her fine house and fine furniture, fine horses 
and fine carriages, as on the loss of that hus- 
band to whom she was indebted for all her 
finery. She was a weak woman — too highly 
elated in prosperity, too easily depressed by 
adversity — not considering that both are situ- 
ations of trial; that there is but one path which 
leads to eternal life, and so we gain it, the 
consideration is trivial, whether it be beneath 
the garish sunbeams of the one, or groping 
our tearful way through the dark shadows of 
the other. But lessons of true humility, or 
useful exertion, were never taught by the pre- 
cepts, or examples, of Mrs. Wilson ; and 
Walter, till her death, which occurred when he 
was about fifteen, had done little, save repine 
at the cruelty of fortune, or form wild schemes 
of future success and grandeur, which neither 
his temperament, nor habits, seemed in the 
least calculated to realize. He was proud, 
passionate, and visionary, and though not idle, 
a very reluctant boy, whenever manual labor 
was included in his tasks. These were the 
dark shades of his character. Now for the sun- 
ny side ; and that I like to portray far the best. 
His feelings were just like his countenance, 
— open, ingenuous, noble ; his heart quick as 
the flash of his dark eye, in the cause of the 
oppressed ; and tender as the smile that played 
on his lip, while gazing on the faces of those 


10 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


he loved. And he possessed that surest pledge 
of virtue in the dependant , a grateful mind; 
joined with a sense of honor so scrupulous, 
that he would have died rather than betrayed 
a trust reposed in him, or violated a promise 
voluntarily given. It was on the right direc- 
tion of these qualities, that his grandfather, a 
cautious, shrewd old citizen, who had fought 
in the battles of the revolution, and assisted 
in the formation of more than one constitution 
designed for the government of freemen, built 
his hopes of the future success of the destitute 
orphan. But how to manage him judiciously 
was the question. He had never been sub- 
jected to much restraint, and his spirit would 
spurn at the contumely and wrongs the poor 
are often exposed to receive from the rich. 
He was naturally romantic, and had not been 
inured to steady exertion, and would probably 
be discouraged if a life of labor was proposed 
as the only means by which greatness might 
be achieved. His grandfather had a friend, 
an old-fashioned farmer like himself, and more- 
over rich and without sons, who offered to take 
the boy. It was an excellent place, if plenty 
of food, and plenty of work, good instruction, 
and pious examples, are considered of primary 
importance in the education of the young. 
The grandfather thought them so. — Walter was 
not so easily satisfied ; but, finally, gratitude to 
his relative, who had so long supported him, 
made him yield to his wishes, and consent to 
dwell with Mr. Ezekiel Clark, for the space 
of three years. If in that time his objections 


WALTER WILSON. 


11 


to the occupation of agriculture should not be 
removed, his grandfather promised to aid him 
to prepare himself for something more conso- 
nant to his wishes. It is impossible, in this 
limited sketch, to analyze the motives which in- 
duced the old gentleman thus to dispose of 
Walter, whom he loved as tenderly as he ever 
did one of his own sons. No doubt the reader, 
if a young lady, thinks his destination very 
vulgar — wonders why he was not sent to col- 
lege, or at least, placed behind some counter ; 
and, all interest in the hero at an end, prepares 
to turn to some more amusing article. If she 
does, she will lose the description of as fair a 
girl as herself, besides one or two love scenes. 

It was about seven o’clock in the evening of 
the last day of November, 1803, that the fami- 
ly of Mr. Ezekiel Clark was summoned to the 
sitting room to attend family duties. This was 
two hours earlier than the usual season for the 
evening devotions, but all knew the reason of 
the call, and assembled without delay. There, 
in an oldfashioned armed chair, before a fire that 
seemed calculated for the meridian of Lapland, 
sat Mr. Ezekiel Clark; at his right hand stood 
a three legged table, on which lay the “ big 
ha’ Bible,” well worn, and beside it, a small, 
neat edition of the holy scriptures, apparently 
new. Mr. Clark was advanced in years, sixty 
or upwards, a tall, spare, yet vigorous looking 
man, and in his youth, probably handsome ; 
but now his face was marked with the deep 
lines of care and sorrow, while his thick, over- 
hanging eyebrows, gave an austere cast to his 


12 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


countenance, which was much increased 
his habitual gravity. With her chair nestled 
close to his side, and her hand reclining on his 
knee, sat his daughter, his only one, and a 
fairer girl could not be found in all the country. 

I dislike full length descriptions of beauty. 
Who does not know that a handsome woman 
must have a fair complexion, bright eyes, ruby 
lips, and all the et ccetera of loveliness, requisite 
to take captive the affections of lordly man? 
These choice gifts had been showered upon 
the fair F anny — (that was her name ; had she 
ever attended a boarding school, it would 
probably have been novelized into Frances ; 
but the advantages of a fashionable education 
she never had enjoyed, and so I shall call her 
as her father always called her — Fanny ;) — 
with a prodigality that marked her for a favor- 
ite of nature ; yet I cannot be positive of the 
color of her hair, whether it was black, brown, 
or chestnut. 

The qualities of her mind and temper de- 
mand more particular scrutiny. She was the 
youngest of eight children that a beloved wife 
had borne to Mr. Clark. The others all died 
young ; and as these human blossoms, one by 
one, were withered, the heart of the mother 
sunk beneath her grief. She died of a linger- 
ing consumption, and the little Fanny, then 
but five years old, only remained to console 
her father. It might naturally be supposed 
she would be much indulged — but it was not 
so. Mr. Clark was a genuine descendant of 
the pilgrims, pious even to enthusiasm, and 


WALTER WILSON 


13 


pursuing what he deemed the path of duty, 
with a resolution that savored of sternness. 
Strict in family duties, and family government, 
even to rigidness, he would have thought it an 
infringement of the decalogue, to have indulged 
with his child in that playful hilarity which 
good people now deem so innocent and lauda- 
ble. But Fanny loved her father with a rev- 
erence so deep, so grateful, that all his com- 
mands were pleasant. She even watched to 
anticipate his wishes, and although, had she 
followed the impulses of her own happy and 
buoyant heart, she would have sung and danc- 
ed from morning till night ; yet whenever she 
caught her father’s voice, hers sunk to soft 
murmurs ; and when she heard his step, her 
own was demure as a quaker’s. Yet it was 
not that he did not love her sweet tones ; they 
thrilled every fibre of his heart, and often 
charmed him £ even to tears ’ — but he did not 
dare indulge his tender and delighted feelings, 
he so feared he should idolize her ; he so trem- 
bled lest he should lose her. He was like the 
miser who can only count his gold in secret, 
lest some one beholding his treasure, should 
rob him of the precious deposit. He always 
prayed for her, but he never caressed her ; 
even when she drew her chair so close to his, 
and looked up in his face with such confiding 
fondness, he did not smile upon her. But she 
knew he loved her, and to retain and merit his 
affection, was her study and pride. 0, she 
was a sweet girl ! as gay as a swallow, and 
yet gentle as a dove — persevering, and yet 
2 


14 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


flexible ; just the disposition for a woman, a 
wife ; a spirit that can accommodate itself to 
the wishes and humors of those on whom it is 
dependent for happiness, and yet retain suf- 
ficient. firmness to act with decision when cir- 
cumstances shall require its exertion. 

I have dwelt so long on the character of 
Fanny, (how could it be avoided ?) that I must 
be brief in the notice of the personage seated 
next her. And yet to delineate half her pecu- 
liarities, would fill half a volume, and her say- 
ings and doings would form a folio. She was 
no other than Miss Judith Clark, better known 
in the family and neighbourhood by the name 
of aunt Judy, the sister of Mr. Ezekiel Clark ; 
and ever since the decease of his wife, had 
been his housekeeper. She was a working, 
talking, bustling body, and one who never 
omitted an opportunity of giving good advice 
to any person, let them be ever so mean or 
miserable, who would listen to her harangues. 
If she did not always give assistance to those 
who needed it, it was because she did not see 
it to be her duty. She was the reverse of her 
brother in many things, and perhaps the differ- 
ence cannot be better explained than by saying, 
that while she was boasting of her knowledge 
of the law, he was silently obeying its injunc- 
tions. Yet she was an excellent housekeeper, 
and proud of her housekeeping ; in short, one 
of your notables ; a character not so common 
now as twenty years since. She was seated 
very erect, in a low chair, her knitting work on 
her lap, but covered with her pocket handker 


WALTER WILSON. 


15 


chief, which would wholly have concealed it, 
had not one unmannerly needle thrust itself 
through a small hole she had that very evening 
to her great consternation burnt, while smok- 
ing. Her visage was thin and sharp, and her 
features, and the lines of her countenance, de- 
noted no predominant passion, save extreme 
carefulness ; yet her spectacles were now rais- 
ed upon her forehead, and her hands reverent- 
ly folded upon her lap, as if she had cast aside 
all worldly thoughts, while preparing to attend 
the reading of the Holy Word. Let us not 
doubt the sincerity of her worship — she cer- 
tainly made a sacrifice of inclination to duty ; 
the posture she had assumed, was to her active 
habits a penance ; for never, during waking 
hours, were her hands seen folded, except at 
the morning and evening devotions. But even 
then, she was not wholly freed from anxiety. 
Her attention was often diverted from her re- 
ligious meditations, by the pranks of a roguish 
looking urchin, who sat in the corner, on her 
left. A little curl-headed Jonathan, who had 
been bequeathed, by his dying mother, to the 
care of aunt Judy, and whom she loved, three 
excepted, the best of any human being. But 
he loved play, even better than he did aunt 
Judy ; and was now, from his low stool, slyly 
pulling and teasing two venerable cats, that 
lay sleeping on a rug, placed purposely for 
them, near the fire. 

One other figure completed the group around 
the hearth. Nearly opposite aunt Judy, and 
beyond the table, on the right hand of Mr. 


16 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


Clark, sat a young man, apparently sunk in 
profound thought. The air of his countenance 

was lofty, almost to haughtiness and yet 

there was something in the expression of his 
very handsome features that attracted, almost 
fascinated, every beholder. It was the ex- 
pression of generous feeling, that promised 
sympathy; of open sincerity, that invited confi- 
dence ; and few, who regard the face as an in- 
dex of the mind, would have hesitated to trust 
him as a friend, and fewer still would have 
wished to have provoked him to become an 
enemy. That youth was Walter Wilson. It 
was the day of his emancipation — he was twen- 
ty-one; and the family were thus early assem- 
bled, that they might all unite once more in 
worshipping the Most High, before Walter de- 
parted to a school, in a distant town, which he 
had engaged to instruct during the winter. 

Mr. Clark read a chapter composedly, but 
in a much lower tone than usual — perhaps that 
was the reason why neither W alter nor F anny 
heard one word of the matter. Aunt Judy 
could not attend strictly to the reading, as she 
was obliged to keep one eye constantly fixed 
on the rogue in the corner, while sundry shakes 
of her head denoted her displeasure at his con- 
duct. Then followed the prayer, in which 
Mr. Clark deviated so far from his usual form, 
as to petition, earnestly, that the path of duty 
might be made plain to the one about to go 
out from them — that he might be kept from 
temptation, and preserved from evil ; and that 
they might all meet again, if not in this vale of 


WALTER WILSON. 


17 


tears, yet in the heaven of joy above. Aunt 
Judy, as a response, uttered a sigh so deep, 
it nearly resembled a groan — Walter stood 
with his lips firmly compressed, and every 
nerve wrought up to endure, if possible, with- 
out betraying his feelings ; he did not relax 
for aunt Judy’s groan. But when he heard a 
soft, low sigh, that he knew was breathed by 
F anny, his knees trembled so violently, he was 
compelled to lean against the mantel-piece for 
support. When Mr. Clark had ended his 
prayer, he took from the table the small Bible, 
and advancing one step towards Walter, said, 
— ‘ It is now my duty, Walter, to say you are 
free. You have been a faithful and a good 
boy; not that I can say you have always done 
your duty; but we all have our short-comings, 
and you have behaved much better than I ex- 
pected when I took you. I hope and pray you 
will continue to do well; and as a guide to your 
path, I give you the word of God. Study it, 
Walter, and you will, I trust, become wise un- 
to salvation. And if, in this world, you meet 
with any trials in which I can assist you, call 
upon me as your friend, your father.’ 

His voice sunk as he pronounced the last 
word, but not one word was so distinctly heard 
by Walter ; and as he returned the fervent 
pressure of the old man’s hand, the tears swell- 
ed in his eyes. Aunt Judy sobbed audibly, 
and would doubtless have cried outright, had 
she not felt it her duty, while her brother was 
speaking, to reprimand little Jonathan, which 
she did in a whisper, by telling him that 1 if he 


18 AMERICAN SKETCHES. 

did not let them ’ere cats alone, qnd behave 
himself, she would, as soon as ever Walter 
was gone, whip him till she took his skin off.’ 
For the credit of her humanity, however, I will 
record, that she had not the least intention 
of executing her threat. 

A man now entered the room to say he wait- 
ed for Walter. ‘We must bid you good-by, 
Walter,’ said aunt Judy, offering him one hatid, 
while with the other she wiped her eyes — ‘ but 
where is Fanny? Fanny!’ she continued in 
a loud tone — ‘ where can the girl be gone to, 
I wonder ? Fanny !’ 

‘Bid Fanny farewell for me,’ said Walter, 
in a low voice, and then again pressing the 
hand of Mr. Clark, he rushed from the house. 

‘ You may put my trunk in the sleigh, and 
drive on,’ said Walter, to the man who was to 
accompany him — ‘ I shall walk.’ 

‘Walk! what, all the way to your grand- 
father’s ? ’ inquired the man — ‘ why it is a 
good five miles, and a plaguy rough road.’ 

‘ No matter,’ replied Walter, in an accent so 
impatient, it sounded angry — ‘ I say I shall 
walk.’ 

‘ And walk you will, I guess, for all of my 
stopping for you,’ muttered the fellow, as he 
drove off at full speed. 

Walter slowly followed the jingling vehicle, 
till he had reached an abrupt angle in the road, 
which, entered upon, soon shut out the view 
of Mr. Clark’s dwelling. Here the youth paus- 
ed, turned, and stood long, with folded arms, 
gazing on the home he had left. The cold of 


WALTER WILSON. 


19 


winter had already commenced ; the ground 
was covered with snow, that sparkled beneath 
the bright moonlight ; it was shining as the 
world appeared to Walter, and cold as his 
hopes on entering it. The tall elms, that so 
gracefully, during summer, threw their green 
foliage over the long, low, oldfashioned build- 
ing, now towered, revealed in all their gigan- 
tic proportions, their long bare arms, stretched 
abroad, as if to defend the dwelling they had 
so lately ornamented. All around was hush- 
ed ; and while Walter stood there so still and 
lonely, the only living thing unsheltered, he 
felt pressing on his heart that sense of utter 
desolateness, which persons of sensibility, who 
for the first time find themselves alone in the 
world, are doomed to suffer. There are few 
sensations more painful. 

How his hopes, and plans, and wishes, had 
altered, since he first went to reside with Mr. 
Clark ! Fanny was then just twelve. He 
promised to stay three years ; they looked like 
an eternity to him, he was so anxious to min- 
gle among men, and hew himself a path to fame, 
and do — he knew not what — but c wonders, no 
doubt.’ The three years expired. Fanny 
was fifteen. She loved Walter, with all the 
innocency and truth of sisterly affection. Eve- 
ry leisure hour they planned some amusement 
ogether. During the long winter evenings, 
when she had knit her thirty times round , they 
read the same books together. Fanny, with 
tears in her eyes, begged him to stay ; could 
he go ? 0, no ! not then — in a few months per- 


20 


AMERICAN SKETCHES 


haps. Thus two years passed — they passed 
quickly to Walter. One year onfip remained 
of his minority ; and during that, he never 
once expressed a wish to go. And Jacob 
could not labor more faithfully, while serving 
for his beloved Rachel, than Walter wrought 
on the farm of Mr. Clark. Yet the intercourse 
between Walter and Fanny, had assumed a 
character so distant and reserved, that a stran- 
ger might have thought them wholly indifferent 
to each other. This reserve was the effect of 
her delicacy, and his sense of honor and fideli- 
ty to his master. It was then Walter felt the 
full bitterness of his poverty and dependence. 

He loved Fanny, deeply, fervently; and yet 
he never breathed a syllable, which a brother 
might not have spoken to a sister. Still he 
feared he had not been sufficiently guarded, 
else why had not Mr. Clark expressed a wish 
to have him reside longer with him, when he 
so much needed help ? 4 He suspects I love 

Fanny , 5 murmured the youth to himself. A 
convulsive movement for a moment agitated 
his features. Then clenching his hand firmly, 
he exclaimed — 4 And I will yet be worthy of 
her love ! 5 And plunging down the steep road, 
he pursued his way with a speed that seemed 
calculated to overtake his companion. 

In truth, Walter was not the only person 
who wondered why ne was suffered to depart. 
Aunt Judy owned her astonishment ; but as 
economy was as much her hobby as it ever was 
Adam Smith’s, the only difference being that 
his was political , hers, personal — she resolved 


WALTER WILSON. 


21 


all her doubts by reflecting, that probably, her 
brother knew of some person he could hire 
who would work cheaper than Walter. 

The next morning saw a very sober looking 
group assembled around the breakfast table of 
Mr. Ezekiel Clark. / 4 I took a bad cold yes- 
terday, and could not sleep much last night,’ 
said Mr. Clark. 

4 1 had terrible bad dreams, and my sleep did 
not do me one bit of good,’ said aunt Judy. 

Fanny said not a word ; but, judging by her 
swollen eye and pale cheek, she had rested no 
better than the others. A fortnight passed, 
and no news from Walter — another fortnight, 
and a letter came to Mr. Clark. 

4 Pray, how does Walter like his school ? 
how many scholars does he have ? when is he 
coming home ?’ eagerly demanded aunt Judy; 
huddling question upon question, with true 
feminine volubility. 

4 He says nothing at all about his school,’ 
replied her brother, gravely, and glancing his 
eye on his daughter. 

4 You needn’t look to Fanny,’ said aunt Judy, 
pettishly, provoked that her questions were all 
vain, — 4 as if she wanted to hear anything 
about Walter. She hasn’t mentioned his name 
since he went away, and I don’t believe she 
cares whether he is dead or alive.’ 

F anny was employed making a coat of crim- 
son flannel, which aunt Judy had taken par- 
ticular pains to color for little Jonathan. Dur- 
ing the time her father was reading the letter, 
she had busily continued her work ; but aunt 


22 


AMERICAN SKETCHES 


Judy afterwards declared, she never, c in all 
the days of her life, see such a looking button- 
hole as one that Fanny made on that crimson 
suit.’ Her face was pale as marble when her 
father first looked upon her ; at aunt J udy’s 
remark, it was colored to her forehead — even 
her neck and hands were as crimson as Jona- 
than’s coat. 

A smile of tenderness, mingled with a shade 
of sorrow, passed over the usually fixed, and 
almost stern features of Mr. Clark. He col- 
lected his writing materials, and sat down to 
answer Walter’s letter ; but what he wrote, 
aunt Judy, with all her fidgeting, could not 
discover. 

The months passed on ; but if we credit 
aunt Judy, they passed heavily. She always 
declared it was the most melancholy winter she 
ever experienced. 4 And Fanny,’ she said, 
4 was so downspirited and moping, she raly 
feared the girl was going into a consumption.’ 

At such remarks, Fanny would try to smile ; 
but if her father heard them, the look of pity 
and endearment he always threw upon her, 
would bring tears to her eyes. 

It was towards the last of March, and on 
the evening of a stormy, blustering day, such 
as frequently occur at the vernal equinox, that 
Mr. Clark sat down to read his usual portion 
of scripture. He had laid his hand on the sa- 
cred volume, and given the preparatory hem, 
when the outer door unclosed, and a light step 
was heard traversing the long, narrow entry. 
The sitting room door was flung open. 


WALTER WILSON. 


23 


‘Walter!’ — exclaimed Mr. Clark, in the 
deep bass tones of his guttural voice, seizing 
one of the youth’s hands. 

‘ Walter !’ — screamed aunt Judy, a full oc- 
tave above the highest treble notes she ever 
before used — as she caught the other. 

‘Walter!’ murmured Fanny, in a voice 
sweeter to his ear than the breathing of an 
./Eolian harp, as disengaging himself from the 
grasp of her father and aunt, he pressed both 
her hands in his, and while she sunk into the 
chair from which she had partly risen, just 
touched his lips to her forehead. 

The action was unnoticed by aunt Judy, 
who had stooped to pick up her spectacles, 
which had fallen in her hurry to welcome Wal- 
ter ; and which she would not have had broken, 
for a kiss from the handsomest young man in 
the universe. If Mr. Clark saw the slight 
caress, the smile that beamed on his features, 
while he pointed Walter to a seat in his usual 
place, did not argue displeasure. 

‘ What is the matter with F anny now ?’ said 
aunt Judy. ‘ I shouldn’t think Walter’s com- 
ing home was any occasion for tears.’ 

‘ We will proceed in the duties of the eve- 
ning,’ said her brother, solemnly, as he just 
glanced on his daughter. 

‘ You may have Fanny,’ said Mr. Clark to 
Walter the next day — ‘but, as I told you in 
my letter, you must not marry till next Novem- 
ber. Manage for yourself one year. Go, 
hire yourself out, and be steady and industri- 
ous 5 you will gain much useful knowledge ; 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


and next fall come home here, and you shall 
be as my own son. Fanny, too, has need of 
learning many things, before she will be fitted 
to manage a family.’ 

4 Yes, indeed,’ responded aunt J udy. 4 F an- 
ny never has cared whether she knew how to 
bake, or brew, or any such necessary matters, 
if she could only skip and sing. But I hope 
now she will be more steady, and mind how I 
season my pies ; the wedding cake I shan’t 
let her try to make, for it would be a bad sign, 
besides a very great waste, if the wedding cake 
should be spoiled.’ 

4 These wild, idle boys sometimes succeed 
well,’ said a neighbour to the grandfather of 
Walter Wilson. 4 There is your grandson, 
he has married the richest and prettiest girl 
in the county. Who would have guessed it ?’ 

4 It has happened just as I intended,’ replied 
the sagacious old man, significantly shaking 
his head, 4 when I persuaded the child to live 
with Mr. Clark. Walter was one of your ro- 
mantic, hasty, wayward boys ; but he had a 
good heart notwithstanding. One of those 
tempers, so difficult to manage, and so well 
worth the attempt of managing. I placed him 
in the right way, and he is now so trained and 
bound, that habit and inclination will keep him 
right. His own ardor and ambition will soon 
carry him forward, and it is the blessing of our 
happy institutions, that merit and talents, in 
whatever station, if rightly exerted, will com- 
mand respect, and ensure success. I prophe- 
sy,’ continued the old man, raising himself up 


i 




WALTER WILSON. 25 

with a lofty air, 4 1 prophesy, that if Walter 
Wilson lives twenty years, he will be a distin- 
guished man !’ 

There is now a large, elegant brick mansion 
beneath the shade of those old elms, that once 
threw their arms over a long, low, irregular 
building ; the grounds, and everything around, 
bespeak the owner a gentleman of industry, 
wealth, and taste ; and the address of that 
gentleman is, the Hon. Walter Wilson. 


/ 


THE 


SOLDIER OF THE REVOLUTION* 


‘ Old men forget ; yet all shall not be forgot, 
But they’ll remember with advantages, 

The feats they did that day.’ 


Almost every man, who is advanced in 
years, has, in his past life, some particular 
period which is remembered with peculiar in- 
terest. The circumstances connected with 
that period are treasured in the memory, often 
repeated, and but few topics of conversation 
can be introduced without furnishing an oppor- 
tunity of referring, at least, if not expatiating 
on the important affair. It is deserving of no- 
tice that what is, in fact, the engrossing pur- 
suit of the multitude, namely, the acquisition 
of wealth , is not, even by the most devoted 
worldling, accounted matter of such glorious 
triumph as those deeds which shame the pro- 
pensity he is indulging You rarely hear such 
an one boast of the cunning bargain which 
laid the foundation of his fortune, or the plod- 
ding thrift by which he accumulated his thou- 
sands. 

Avarice is a deep rooted passion in the hu- 
man breast, and its gratification ministers to 


SOLDIER OF THE REVOLUTION. 


27 


vanity, yet none are vain of being thought 
avaricious. There is a feeling of degradation 
in the mind, if known to place its sole affections 
on the paltry, perishable things of earth, which 
should admonish even the most stupid, of that 
more noble destiny which man was formed 
capable of enjoying. But feats of personal 
strength and activity, and 6 hair breadth ’scapes* 
from danger, are recounted with a satisfaction 
commensurate to the labors performed, and the 
perils encountered; because there is a pride of 
personal desert in such achievements and es- 
capes. But above all, the glory gained in the 
tented field, is the theme which those wh^ 
have any claim to the title of soldier , are the 
most ambitious to display. They all appear 
to feel somewhat of that yearning for martial 
fame which agitated the princely hero of Agin- 
court when he exclaimed — 

‘ By Jove, I am not covetous for gold ; 

Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost ; 

It yearns me not if men my garments wear ; 

Such outward things dwell not in my desires ; 

But if it be a sin to covet honor, 

I am the most offending soul alive.’ 

Yet whoever has heard, or read the narra- 
tives of the veterans of our revolutionary war, 
must have remarked that they dwell not so 
much on the detail of the battles and skirmish- 
es in which they were engaged, as on the ef- 
fect those actions had in deciding the contest 
in favor of liberty and independence. The 
causes which roused the Americans to take up 
arms, were most favorable to the developement 


28 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


of the virtuous energies of men, and conse- 
quently that recklessness of moral charactei 
and abandonment of pious principles, which 
too often fatally distinguishes the mass of that 
profession, when composed of hired merce- 
naries, never attached to the soldiers of our 
armies. It was doubtless matter of astonish- 
ment to the governments of Europe, that no 
disturbance followed the disbanding of the 
American troops ; those foreigners did not 
know that our soldiers , when assuming that 
name, never abandoned the one of citizens. 
In fact the latter was the most gratifying to 
those who fought the battles of freedom, — and 
when the necessity for farther resistance ceas- 
ed, they gladly relinquished their weapons and 
returned to the firesides their valor had pre- 
served from insult and spoliation. It was their 
boast to have fought for their country, and 
to their country they cheerfully resigned the 
laurels they had won. This generous devoted- 
ness of the American soldiery to the principles 
of liberty and equal rights, and their prompt 
obedience to civil government, have no paral- 
lel in history. They have never been ade- 
quately rewarded, but let them be gratefully 
remembered. They deserve to have their 
deeds the theme of story, and of song ; and a 
sketch of one of those veterans will not surely 
be considered inappropriate in a work like this, 
especially by those who consider how much 
the ladies of America are indebted to the free 
institutions established by the war of the Revo- 


SOLDIER OF THE REVOLUTION 29 

lution, for their inestimable privileges of edu- 
cation, and that elevation of character and 
sentiment they now possess. 

4 This walk has quite tired me,’ said old 
Captain Blake, seating himself in his capacious 
armed chair, and placing one foot on the low 
stool his grandaughter Maria arranged for 
his accommodation. 4 A little matter over- 
comes me now, I find. Maria, my love, bring 
me a tumbler of beer. Well, Mr. Freeman, 
you look as if nothing could fatigue you ; and 
I have seen the time when I thought no more 
of walking a dozen miles, than I do now of 
creeping as many rods. I remember when I 
marched with General Starke to Bennington — 
that was the first time I went as a soldier. I 
was then just twenty, and I carried my gun 
and ammunition, and a huge knapsack, con- 
taining clothing and provisions, for my kind 
mother was very much afraid I should suffer 
with hunger; and I marched with all that load 
about forty miles in one day, and never thought 
of complaining.’ 

4 You had then a glorious object in view to 
animate your spirit,’ said Horace Freeman. 

4 Yes, and we obtained it,’ replied the old 
gentleman, briskly, sitting upright in his chair ; 
4 and the country is now enjoying the reward 
of our labors and sufferings. Those were 
dark days,’ he continued, with the air of one 
who is endeavouring to recall ideas of scenes 
and feelings long past, and almost forgotten. 
4 Dark days and perilous times for America, 
Mr. Freeman ; — and the events of that period 
3 * 


30 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


cannot be too often related to the rising gene- 
ration.’ 

He paused, and seemed gathering strength 
and breath for a long harangue, and the young 
people expected the history of his three cam- 
paigns. Horace F reeman had heard the whole 
just six times over, and Maria at least sixty — 
but she was never tired of listening to her 
grandfather, and Horace, if he might but look 
on her, could listen very patiently. 

It is probable the old gentleman noticed the 
glances interchanged by the lovers, and that 
they recalled forcibly to his mind some passa- 
ges in his early life — at least it might have 
been so inferred, as the circumstances he pro- 
ceeded to narrate he had never before been 
heard to mention. 

Captain Blake resumed — ‘ It is easy for you 
young men to imagine the deeds of valor you 
should have performed, had you lived in the 
days that tried men’s souls — but it is not in 
the battle that the heart or courage is most 
severely tested. Indeed there are but few 
men who feel any fear to fight when once the 
engagement has begun ; ’tis the anticipation 
of the combat that makes cowards, and some- 
times brave men tremble. But the most pain- 
ful moment of a soldier’s life, at least of those 
who have a dear home and kind friends, is 
when they part from them. I said the expedi- 
tion under General Starke was the first I join- 
ed. When the news of the Lexington battle 
arrived, I was eager to be a soldier — but my 
father objected. ‘No, my son,’ he said, ‘ you 


SOLDIER OF THE REVOLUTIOxV. 31 

*ie not yet arrived at your full strength, and 
the country requires the assistance of men. I 
will go.’ And he went, and fought at Bunker 
Hill — and in the retreat across Charlestown 
neck he was, wounded by a cannon ball from 
the British man of war. The ball shattered 
his right knee, and amputation was found ne- 
cessary. It was some time before he could be 
brought home, and he never recovered his for- 
mer health. My father was a poor, but a verv 
respectable man; for in those days the display 
of wealth was not necessary to make a man 
respected. Good sense, industry, economy 
and piety were passports to the best society 
among the descendants of the pilgrims. My 
father possessed all these requisites ; and, 
moreover, his reputation for personal courage 
and tried patriotism was firmly established, — 
for who could doubt either, when his harangues, 
justifying the proceedings of Congress and 
condemning the British ministry, were always 
followed by a vivid description of the Bunker 
Hill battle, and the pain he endured from his 
wound; the whole closed by the solemn dec- 
laration, that his greatest anxiety and distress, 
during the whole operation on his limb, arose 
from the conviction that he was for the future 
incapacitated from taking an active part in de- 
fending the liberty of his country. My father 
had one enemy and opponent. This was a 
man by the name of Saunders, our nearest 
neighbour. They moved into the wilderness 
together, and it might have been expected that 
mutual hardships would have made them mu- 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


32 

tual friends. But, in the first place, there was 
no similarity of mind or temper between them 
— and in the second place, Saunders married 
a rich wife; giving him an advantage in point 
of property, which he was very fond of display- 
ing. My father, though various untoward ac- 
cidents kept him poor, was nevertheless proud, 
and knew his own abilities were far superior 
to those of his neighbour; and so, the more os- 
tentatiously Saunders displayed his wealth, the 
more contemptuously my father treated his 
opinions. There was scarcely a point on 
which they agreed ; and when the troubles be- 
tween Great Britain and the Colonies com- 
menced, they immediately took different sides ; 
my father was a flaming whig, and it was per- 
haps as much to avoid being termed a follower 
of his, for my father always took the lead in 
town meetings, — as from principle, that Saun 
ders declared himself for the government. 

It would be a curious inquiry to trace the 
operation of the causes that have contributed 
to establish those principles, which men often 
boast of having adopted solely from a convic- 
tion of their truth and usefulness. How much 
of personal convenience, of private pique, of 
selfishness, envy, anger or ambition, would be 
found to mingle in the motives of the patriot 
and the politician ! But this we will not now 
discuss. My father was a firm friend of his 
country, and a fervent Christian ; but he had, 
like other good men, his infirmities ; and among 
them, perhaps none was more conspicuous 
than^a persevering habit of advancing his own 


SOLDIER OF THE REVOLUTION. 


S3 


sentiments on almost every occasion, and a 
dogmatical obstinacy in defending them. And 
he availed himself to the utmost of the advan- 
tage which the popularity of his own opinions 
gave him over his adversary. Though I em- 
braced with enthusiasm my father’s political 
sentiments, yet one reason made me regret, 
very much, the animosity that seemed every 
day more bitter, between him and Mr. Saun- 
ders. There was a fair girl in the case, and I 
was just at the age when the affections of the 
heart are most warm and romantic. Mary 
Saunders was not an extraordinary beauty : I 
have seen fairer girls than she ; but I never 
saw one whose expression of countenance 
was more indicative of purity of mind and 
sweetness of temper. But you can judge for 
yourself, Mr. Freeman, for Maria here is her 
very image — all but the eyes. Mary Saunders 
had black eyes ; and black is, in my opinion, 
much the handsomest color for the eye, and 
generally the most expressive. Maria’s eyes, 
you see, are blue — do, my love, look up — but 
their expression is very much like her grand- 
mother’s eyes.’ 

Horace Freeman w r as doubtless very glad 
of an opportunity of examining, and that too 
by the permission of her guardian, the eyes 
of the girl he adored ; but her confusion and 
blushes admonished him that the indulgence 
of his passion was fraught with pain to the ob- 
ject of his affection, and he endeavoured to 
change the conversation to the subject of the 
foattle of Bennington. 


34 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


‘You observed, you accompanied General 
Starke,’ said he to the old man ; ‘ were you 
present when the tories under Baum were 
defeated ? ’ 

‘ Was I ? ’ returned the old gentleman, his 
eyes flashing with the keenness of youthful ar- 
dor — ‘ I guess I was, and I believe I have told 
vou the whole story ; nevertheless I will de- 
tail it again, some time, as I find you like to 
hear such accounts, as indeed all sensible 
young men do ; but now I was intending more 
particularly to tell my own feelings and views 
when I first left home. Accounts of battles are 
quite common, but we seldom read or hear a 
description of that warfare of mind which every 
soldier must undergo when he, for the first 
time, girds himself and goes forth to fight. 
I said I loved Mary Saunders, and she return 
ed my affection ; but the difficulties, every 
day increasing, between our families, threat- 
ened to prevent our intercourse. Mr. Saun- 
ders was the first to object, and he intimated 
that my father encouraged the match, notwith- 
standing his pretended aversion to tories, be- 
cause he thought it advantageous. This ac- 
cusation kindled my father’s anger to a high 
degree, for nothing roused his spirit like a 
charge of meanness — and so he absolutely 
prohibited me from seeing or speaking to Ma- 
ry, or corresponding with her in any manner. 
How absurdly our passions are often allowed 
to control our reason and judgment, and even 
our inclination. At the time when Mary and 
I were thus positively forbidden to meet 


SOLDIER OF THE REVOLUTION. 3f> 

had our fathers spoken their real sentiments, I 
am persuaded they would both of them have 
approved our affection for each other. I was 
always a favorite with Mr. Saunders, and as 
Mary was an only child, and had no compan 
ion at home, she had passed much of her time 
with my sisters, and my parents had seemed 
equally fond of her as of their own daughters. 
But now all intercourse between the families 
was annihilated, and for us to have met, would 
have been considered a great crime. 

Party spirit was then, and always will be, 
wherever indulged, the bane of society and 
good neighbourhood. But the peculiar circum- 
stances in which the whigs were placed justi- 
fied, in some measure, the asperity they cher- 
ished against all denominated tories. There 
are some nowadays that write histories of that 
war, and pretend to describe the feelings and 
spirit that then pervaded America, but this 
cannot be done. There. was at that time agi- 
tation in the minds of men which words can 
never describe. The uncertainty that hung 
over the destiny of our country, the exertions 
and sacrifices that all good patriots felt must 
be made before success could be hoped for — 
the possibility of a failure, and a dread of 
the consequences that must ensue, all these 
thoughts pressed on the soul, filling it with an 
indescribable anxiety and gloom. But though 
there was, sometimes, in the mind of the firm- 
est and most determined patriot, doubt, there 
was seldom dismay. He considered the prin- 
ciples for which he contended so implant. 


S6 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


and the prize so glorious, that even though 
assured that he could not have succeeded, he 
would not have yielded. ‘ Give me liberty 
or give me death !’ was not the motto of Pat- 
rick Henry only, — thousands of our citizens 
subscribed to the same sentiment. I remem- 
ber when the news of the approach of Bur- 
goyne’s army, and the retreat of the Americans 
from Ticonderoga, reached us. We were at 
dinner when a messenger, sent by General St. 
Clair, to rouse the inhabitants of New-Hamp- 
shire to come to the assistance of the retreat- 
ing army, entered our house abruptly, with- 
out even the ceremony of rapping at the door. 
The dress of the man showed him to be a sol- 
dier, and his countenance displayed such deep 
concern, that my father seemed instantly to 
guess his errand. He dropped his knife and 
fork, and turning his chair so as to face the 
messenger, demanded his news. I was always 
something of a physiognomist, and while the 
man related the disasters that had befallen our 
troops, and described the numbers and appear- 
ance of the British army, I watched my fa- 
ther’s features, and never did I see such an 
expression as his then displayed. During the 
first part of the recital there was an eagerness, 
an agitation, a quivering of the lips and eye- 
lids, that showed the deep, even painful sym- 
pathy he felt for the embarrassments of the 
American general — but when the royal com- 
mander was named, his brow instantly con- 
tracted, his eye dilated, every muscle of his 
face grew rigid as with determined resolve ; 


SOLDIER OF THE REVOLUTION. S7 

and the stern expression of his features seem- 
ed bidding defiance to the whole British army 
At length, while the man was proceeding to 
describe the proud array of the invading foe, 
and the number of the Indian allies, my fa- 
ther suddenly struck his clenched hand on the 
table, with a force and clatter that made all 
the children instantly start from their seats, 
while he exclaimed — 6 O ! if it had only been 
God’s will that 1 should have kept my leg, I 
would soon be on the ground and show them 
red coats the metal of a Yankee.’ I caught 
his eye as he ceased, and there was an instant 
change in his countenance. I presume he 
noticed the eagerness of my look, for there 
was nothing on earth, except to see Mary, that 
1 then longed so much to do as to become a 
soldier. This my father had never appeared 
willing to permit. He could face danger with- 
out shrinking, but he trembled for me. I urg- 
ed my wishes to go. He appeared for a few 
moments irresolute — drew his hand twidfe 
across his forehead, and then calmly said — 
c My son, you may go. The crisis demands 
the sacrifice of all selfish and private feelings 
on the part of Americans — You shall go.’ 

To know the whole merit of the sacrifice my 
father then made, it will be necessary to state 
that 1 was the eldest of eleven children, all 
girls, excepting myself and the youngest babe. 
My father was not able to do any labor — it was 
in the month of July, when the farmer has, ne- 
cessarily, so much business on his hands, and 
yet 1 am persuaded there was not one self-in- 


S3 


AMERICAN SKETCHES 


terested motive, excepting his fears of the dan- 
ger to which I would be exposed, that caused 
his hesitation. 

It is impossible, in these days of peace and 
plenty, to estimate truly the generous, devoted, 
self-denying spirit that was exhibited during 
the revolution. The thirst for private gain, 
that is now so engrossing, was then a feeble 
passion, compared with the ardor to promote 
the public good ; and the final success of our 
arms is mainly to be attributed to the virtue 
and patriotism of the people. We had, to be 
sure, a commander worthy of our cause and 
country, one undoubtedly designed and prepar- 
ed by Heaven for the task he performed — but 
then, his powers and those of the Congress 
were so limited, he never would have succeed- 
ed, but for the zealous and spontaneous co-op- 
eration of our citizens. But I am wandering 
from the subject of my own feelings,’ he con- 
tinued, smiling, ‘ as indeed I am very apt to 
do whenever 1 begin to think, or speak of the 
public excitement. But to comprehend right- 
ly an old man’s story, you must allow him to 
tell it in his own way. Often when he appears 
to wander the most widely from his purpose, it 
is not that he forgets it, but because so many 
circumstances, which he thinks important, con- 
nected with the event he would relate, press 
on his mind, that he fears you will not get a 
right understanding of his subject, unless he 
relates all those circumstances. It is not so 
often from loss of memory that the aged are 
garrulous, as from remembering too much 


SOLDIER OF THE REVOLUTION. 


39 


It was settled I should depart next morning, 
and all was bustle to prepare me for the expe- 
dition. 

My father would himselt inspect and arrange 
my military equipments. I had an excellent 
rifle, and a sufficient quantity of powder, but no 
bullets — but that deficiency was soon suppli- 
ed. My mother tendered her pewter basons, 
and we manufactured a sufficient quantity of 
shot to kill a whole regiment. My mother 
also packed among my clothes a huge roll 
of linen, for bandages, remarking as she did 
so, that she hoped I would not need it, but 
I might perhaps have it in my power to bind 
up the wounds of some poor creature. At 
that time the soldier had often to carry about 
him his hospital, as well as magazine. During 
ail this my parents neither shed a tear nor ut- 
tered a desponding word ; they even reprov- 
ed my sisters for weeping, saying, that tears 
should be reserved for the dead — that they 
ought to rejoice they had a brother capable 
and willing to defend his country and family 
from the ruthless savages ; and that God would 
not suffer the injustice of their oppressors long 
to triumph, if every American did his duty 
In the mean time, my own mind was suffering 
a severe conflict. I did not fear the battle — i 
longed to engage in the fight ; but there was 
something in this preparation for wounds and 
death, that could not but be somewhat appal- 
ling to one who had always lived in the securi- 
ty and shelter of home. I reflected on the pos- 
sibility that I might never see that home again 


40 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


All the kindness and affection of my parents 
and sisters, came fresh to my mind. The hap- 
py circle we had always formed around the 
fireside would be broken, and I knew there 
would be mourning for me. But there was 
one who I thought would weep bitter tears. I 
had not seen Mary, excepting at church, for 
more than six months ; but I gathered from 
the expression of her countenance, that her re- 
gard for me was unaltered. She had doubtless 
suffered more from the separation than I. Wo- 
men are more constant in their attachments 
than men, and they have fewer employments 
and resources to vary the current of their 
thoughts, and a disappointment of the heart is 
to them a constantly corroding sorrow. Mary 
had grown very pale and thin, and when I ga- 
zed on her as she joined in singing the praises 
of God, I had often felt as if she must soon be 
transferred to a happier world. And I had 
sometimes taxed my father with cruelty and 
injustice, in separating us, though, at the same 
time, I respected the high minded integrity 
that dictated the command ; but I had never 
thought of disobeying him. He had in his 
look and manner, that kind of authority which 
seems to be delegated from Heaven, and which 
will not brook to be disregarded ; such as we 
may imagine distinguished the patriarchs. Our 
pilgrim ancestors possessed this domestic au- 
thority in an eminent degree; and their descend- 
ants for several generations inherited it, though 
less dignified — but it now seems to be nearly 
extinct. Whether it was on the whole, more 


SOLDIER OF THE REVOLUTION. 


41 


favorable to human improvement in virtue and 
happiness, than the present reasoning manner 
of family government, is a question I have nev- 
er seen decided. I wish some one qualified 
for the task would give us their opinion on the 
subject. But to return to Mary, from whom 
my thoughts then seldom wandered. I could 
not endure the idea of leaving home without 
seeing her. I went to my father — I trembled 
in every joint, and the sweat started in large 
drops on my forehead, but nevertheless I re- 
tained sufficient firmness to tell him I must 
and would see Mary ; that I wished for his 
consent to visit her, and that perhaps it was 
the last request I should ever make him ; and 
then I added, that if I lived to return, I would 
still be as obedient to his commands as I had 
nitherto been. How I summoned sufficient 
courage to tell him so much, was afterwards to 
me a matter of astonishment ; it might be that 
I felt rather more boldness from knowing I was 
soon to be a soldier. 

I believe my father’s first impulse was to re- 
buke and refuse me, for he assumed one of his 
stern looks that always quelled all opposition 
— but luckily for us both, he looked in my face, 
and I suspect he became sensible I was not in 
a state to bear rebuke or disappointment. His 
first words were, i Ho you wish to be friends 
with the enemies of your country, with trai- 
tors ? ’ 

I said, No — but that Mary was not an enemy 
of her country. 

‘ But her father is,’ he replied, c and children 
4 * 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


4<J 

do adopt, indeed they ought to adopt, the opin- 
ions of their parents.’ 

‘ Not if they think that opinion wrong,’ said 
I. ‘ And I have told you before that Mary 
does not approve her father’s sentiments, and 
that she ought not to be judged and condemn- 
ed on his account.’ 

‘ I know^’ he replied, £ that you think favor- 
ably of her. At your age this is not strange, 
but remember, that though I do not forbid your 
seeing her, if you insist upo'n it, I warn you of 
the consequences. The path of duty is now 
plain before you ; it is to fight manfully foi 
liberty and independence. You seem to have- 
such strength and courage given you, as we 
may hope will bear you up ; but if you join 
hands with those who are wishing to riot in the 
blood of their country, you will probably be 
forsaken by Him who is the God of battles.’ 

There was in my father’s manner a solemn- 
ity that awed me, but still his prophetic warn- 
ing had no effect to deter me from my purpose 
of seeing Mary. I knew, what my father 
would not credit, that she was an enthusiast in 
the cause of her country, though the mildness 
and modesty of her disposition, and respect for 
her parent, restrained her from openly expres- 
sing her sentiments. Indeed, it is worthy of 
notice that during the whole war, the Ameri- 
can women were almost universally patriots ; 
and they encountered their full share of priva- 
tion and suffering, and that too with a cheer- 
fulness and fortitude that, often infused courage 
and vigor into the hearts of the almost despond 


SOLDIER OF THE REVOLUTION. 


43 


ing soldiery. And they not only submitted to 
separations from their friends without murmur- 
ing, but they exerted themselves to provide 
for their families at home, by performing much 
of the labor and business that usually devolves 
on the men. A volume of anecdotes might be 
collected of the heroism and devotion to free- 
dom, manifested by the ladies during that pe- 
riod. There were wives, and mothers, and 
sisters, who encouraged and assisted to pre- 
pare for the battle, those they held dearest on 
earth. And there were maidens who animated 
their betrothed lovers for the fight. I was con- 
fident. Mary was not deficient in this generous 
self-denying spirit, and I had no fear she would 
exert her power over me by endeavouring to 
dissuade me from going into the army. I did 
not then hesitate a moment on my own account; 
but I had to procure the consent of her father, 
as well as mine, for the meeting. I wrote to 
Mr. Saunders, and very respectfully requested 
permission to visit his daughter, stating my 
reasons, and that my father had consented. I 
afterwards learned it was that which made Mr. 
Saunders object. He would agree to nothing 
that my father approved. He wrote me a 
very cool and provoking answer, in which he 
took care to repeat all the account of Bur- 
goyne’s success, and warn me against joining 
in a sinking cause ; and he concluded by 
declaring he would not allow one who was 
intending to fight against his sovereign to visit 
at his house, and that his daughter entirely 
agreed with him in opinion. I was never so 


44 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


disappointed in my life, and I do not remember 
that I was ever more angry. The more so 
perhaps, because my father seemed to enjoy 
my chagrin. I did not believe Mary was thus 
indifferent about seeing me ; but still a young 
man scarce twenty, and a lover beside, is not 
usually the most reasonable being under the 
sun. I thought of a thousand things, and im- 
agined a thousand improbable events. These 
were some of my fancies. If the enemy should 
succeed, Saunders would doubtless join the 
victorious army, at least, he would wish to pay 
his compliments to Burgoyne; and he might 
take Mary with him ; and I was too deeply in 
love to imagine any person could see her with 
indifference. And then I thought it probable 
some English officer would admire her, and 
succeed in gaining her hand — and then I felt 
as if I could annihilate the whole British host. 

While I was indulging in one of these par- 
oxysms of feeling, a boy who lived with Mr. 
Saunders appeared at the end of the lane lead- 
ing to our house. I knew him in a moment, 
although it was nearly dark, and hastened to 
meet him. He brought me a letter from Ma- 
ry. I know you expect I treasured that let- 
ter in my mind, and remember it now — and 
though it may sound rather silly to hear an old 
man like me, saying over his love-letters, I will 
repeat it. It had been begun with ‘ Hear 
Samuel,’ — but those words had been scratched 
out, though not so entirely but I could trace 
them. The next beginning was — ‘ Worth v 
Friend, I have just seen a letter you sent my 


SOLDIER OF THE REVOLUTION'. 


45 


father, and from what he has told me, I fear 
you will think I am ungrateful and have for- 
gotten you. But this I never shall do. 1 
think of you almost constantly, and pray that 
you may be directed in the path of duty. I 
believe you are now pursuing it. I feel that 
our country needs aid, and wish I could ren- 
der it. But that is out of my power ; but if 
prayers and tears could avail to save you from 
harm, I would offer them daily. I do not say 
this to discourage you, but to show you that I 
approve your determination to be a soldier. 
May God shield you. Mary Saunders. 

‘ P. S. I hope you will not forget me.’ 

‘ Such was the letter, word for word,’ con- 
tinued the old man. ‘ I remember it well, for 
1 carried it three years in a little pocket book, 
and read it pretty often, as you doubtless guess. 
It was at the time a precious treasure, for it 
assured me of Mary’s affection, and that she 
approved my being a soldier, and perhaps I 
departed with a lighter heart than I should 
have done had we actually met. 

Early the next morning every thing was 
prepared, and the family all attended while my 
father made a most fervent and impressive 
prayer. I observed that he dwelt more earn- 
estly on the salvation of his country, and pray- 
ed more heartily that the men who were going 
forth might have strength and resolution given 
them to conquer their proud and cruel enemies, 
than he did that they might be saved from dan- 
ger and returned in safety. When he conclud- 
ed, he took my hand ; the pride of a soldier 


46 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


was in his eye as he glanced over my military 
equipments, but I observed a moisture there ; 
and when he spoke, it was in a sharp, quick 
tone, as if he feared to trust the expression of 
his feelings, and even felt angry with himself 
for indulging them. ‘ Sam,’ said he, wringing 
my hand as he spoke. ‘ Sam, remember your 
duty. Your country now requires your servi- 
ces ; and next to your duty to God, your coun- 
try’s claims are sacred. Go, and fight man- 
fully for liberty. Remember it is better to die 
free than live a slave. Go, and God bless 
you.’ 

*■ Samuel,’ said my mother, taking my hand 
in both of hers, and pressing it tenderly, while 
the tears gushed from her eyes — I had not 
seen her weep before. ‘ Samuel, your father 
has told you what is your duty, and I know 
you will do it. I shall pray for you, and if you 
are hitrt, remember the bandages and salve. 
I have put some salve into your pack, that is 
very excellent for wounds. Heaven keep you 
— farewell.’ 

I do not particularly remember what my 
sisters said, nor indeed distinctly anything 
else that passed, till I found myself on the 
brow of a hill that overlooked the farm of my 
father, and part of that belonging to Mr. Saun- 
ders. I paused there, and looked hack on the 
scene I had left. The sun had not risen, but 
the eastern sky, as if preparing for his coming, 
was kindled up with those beautiful hues that 
the light of noonday never imparts. I saw the 
green woods stretching away on every side till 


SOLDIER OF THE REVOLUTION. 47 

they blended with the blue of the distant moun- 
tains. In those woods I had hunted many a 
time. I heard the birds singing their morn- 
ing songs ; all spoke of peace except the shrill 
cry of the jay, and that sounded in my ear like 
a call to battle. Beneath me lay the fields 1 
had traversed so often — the windings of the 
little brook, the boundary that divided the es- 
tate of my father from that of his tory neigh- 
bor, were easily to be traced by the mist that 
hung over it ; and I could distinctly see the 
favorite fishing place where I had passed many 
happy hours. And then there was the home 
in which I was born, and the trees in whose 
shade I had so often played with my sisters — 
and, in the small meadow, a seat beneath an 
old elm, where Mary and I had often met. 

I saw all these, and the recollections they 
awakened, and the; thought that, in all proba- 
bility, I should never see that spot, and those 
objects, and my dear family, and Mary, again, 
came so painfully on my heart that my forti- 
tude was overcome, and I wept and even sob- 
bed aloud. I was in the battle at Bennington 
— I fought at Saratoga — I was one of the twen- 
ty under the command of Lieutenant Knox at 
the capture of Stoney Point — I have been 
wounded, and a prisoner. I have heard bul- 
lets whistle as they fell like hail, and seen men 
dropping around me like leaves in autumn, and 
I have been in want of a crust of bread, but I 
never felt that fear, that utter despondency, 
that misgiving of spirit, which I endured when 
taking my leave of home.’ 


48 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


< But. you did return, my dear grandfather,’ 
said Maria, wiping her eyes. 4 You did see 
that home again ?’ 

4 Yes,’ he replied, 4 I returned to dwell there, 
and I married Mary ; but, it was after my con- 
stitution was broken by fatigue and hardship, 
and my arm rendered, as you see, nearly use- 
less by a fracture in the elbow. Nor had Ma- 
ry been exempt from sorrow and suffering. 
The chagrin her father endured in being, as 
he was, confined to his farm, and knowing him- 
self the object of suspicion, hatred, and con- 
tempt of his neighbours, and the disappoint- 
ment he felt at the failure of the British army, 
whose triumph he had so confidently predicted, 
all these things troubled him, and finally un- 
dermined his health. He fell into a consump- 
tion ; but before he died, he renounced his tory 
principles, and my father and he became re- 
conciled, and he consented I should marry Ma- 
ry. And so when I returned from my last 
campaign, where I was disabled, by this wound 
in my arm, from further service, Mary was 
the first to welcome me. But 0 ! how pale 
and thin she looked. You young people have 
no experience, and can hardly form an idea of 
the trials we had endured. But we had the 
satisfaction of thinking our country would be 
free and independent ; and it is so : and yet 
few, in these days of peace and prosperity, 
seem to remember that their freedom and priv- 
ileges were purchased by the sweat, and toils, 
and blood, of the old soldier.’ 


THE 


WEDDING AND THE FUNERAL. 


i 




' O, thou invisible spirit of brandy, if thou hast no name to be 
kn jffn by, let us call thee — murderer Shakspeaee. 


There was a great bustle in the village of 

B when James Murray, Esq. was married 

to Lucy Marsh. Weddings are always, es- 
pecially by the ladies, considered important 
occasions ; and the marriage of a rich and dis- 
tinguished young man with the most beautiful 
and amiable girl the country could boast, af- 
forded matter of description for many a tea par- 
ty, and speculation for many a fireside. 4 They 
tell me the furnishing of the house cost James 
ail of three thousand dollars,’ said Mrs. Col- 
vin; 4 I wonder what his father, poor man, 
would say, were he living, to see such extrava- 
gance and waste !’ 

4 Waste do you call it ?’ said Miss Lucretia 
Crane, elevating her long neck as she gave her 
head a most supercilious toss — 4 Why, it is 
nothing more than is necessary, if one intends 
living genteelly in the country ; they would 
hardly call it decent in Boston. The only 
tiling that gives me any uneasiness, is, that 
5 


50 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


Lucy will not understand how to arrange he? 
furniture and order her table in good style, 
A great deal depends on being accustomed to 
such things — and though Lucy has had a tole- 
rably good education, she is not highly accom- 
plished, and has never had her taste improved 
by mingling among fashionable society. And 
her parents were so poor she could not learn 
much at home.’ 

‘ She learned to work,’ observed Mr. Colvin, 
dryly — 1 and that, allow me to say, Miss Crane, 
if not a high accomplishment, is an indispensa- 
ble one for every American lady. It is true, 
the wife of James Murray appears to be placed 
above the necessity of exertion ; but sudden 
changes of property are more common among 
men of his vocation than any other ; indeed, 
changes in every station frequently occur, and 
that parent who does not accustom his children 
to reflect on a probability of a reverse, and, to 
the best of his ability, qualify them to support 
it, is, in my opinion, not only weak but cruel. 
Lucy is not, I fear, in spirit, very well calcu- 
lated to bear misfortunes — she is too tender 
and confiding — but she has always been an in- 
dustrious girl.’ 

‘ It might have been better for her to have 
kept to her needle, and married John Russell, 
as I am well convinced she was once engaged 
to do’ — replied Miss Lucretia, with that kind 
of laugh which betrays both envy of a rival, 
and exultation at the prospect of seeing her 
mortified. — £ I have been told’ — she continued 
in a low but eager whisper, 1 I have been told 


WEDDING AND FUNERAL. 


51 


that J amcs does not always conduct like the 
gentleman he pretends to be.’ 

‘ We should be cautious of trusting reports 
affecting the character of our neighbours,’ said 
Mrs. Colvin, forgetting that she had began the 
scrutiny by taxing James with extravagance 
4 James is a generous, intelligent, and agreea- 
ble gentleman, and his talents do honor to our 
village. What did you ever hear to his disad- 
vantage ?’ 

4 O they do say he has been known to take 
a little drop too much — at particular times — 
when in wild company. At least my brother 
heard he did so when in college,’ replied Miss 
Crane. 

4 It cannot — must not be true,’ said Mr. Col- 
vin, hastily. 4 J ames was piously brought up — 
he has had excellent advantages, and possesses 
good judgment and a quickness of penetration 
rarely equalled. He is also ambitious of ob- 
taining the confidence of the people, and the 
honors of public office. He will never yield to 
that most brutalizing vice which degrades men.’ 

4 1 have good reason for believing he has 
been guilty of it,’ said Lucretia, composedly. 

4 But perhaps there is no reason to fear, as his 
lovely wife will doubtless reform him.’ 

4 Such reforms are seldom radical ; and never, 
I fear, with men of his temperament,’ remarked 
Mr. Colvin. — 4 But ten years will decide.’ 

4 0, if James does turn out a piofligate, how 
I shall pity his mother !’ said Mrs. Colvin, sigh- 
ing* 

4 1 shall pity his wife,’ said Miss Lucretia 


52 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


Crane, adjusting her ruffles with an air of great 
self-complacency. 

‘ I shall pity him,’ said Mr. Colvin rising 
hastily and traversing the apartment with the 
perturbation of one who has heard some evil 
reported openly which he had long suspected, 
but had been striving to disbelieve. 

The real concern of Mr. and Mrs. Colvin, 
and the jaffected sympathy of Miss Crane, were 
interrupted by the approach of the bridal cav- 
alcade. In an elegant carriage, drawn by two 
noble grays, sat the new-married pair. They 
were arrayed in costly apparel, and both pos- 
sessed that beauty of form and face which, 
bearing the impress of nature’s nobleness, is 
not dependent on ornament for its power of 
commanding admiration. A long line of car- 
riages followed, from which manly faces, beam- 
ing with exultation, or fair ones blushing at the 
thoughts of their own loveliness, looked forth ; 
the gay laugh was distinctly heard as the vehi- 
cles rolled rapidly along, and no one, not even 
a cynic, could have regarded the scene with- 
out feeling a sentiment of joy and gratitude 
pervading his heart at thus witnessing the per- 
fection of social happiness. 

‘What a comely couple they are !’ exclaimed 
Mrs. Colvin, as the carriage containing the 
bridal pair drew up before a new and elegant 
' mansion — ‘ and what a prospect of domestic fe- 
licity is theirs. But few begin the world thus 
advantageously. They have health and beau- 
ty, wealth and reputation, and friends, and af- 
fection for each other.’ 


WEDDING AND FUNERAL. 


53 


( Could you add one item more to the cata- 
logue of advantages, the earthly picture would 
be complete,’ said Mr. Colvin. ‘ How unfor- 
tunate that the absence of that one requisite, 
may, perhaps, render all the others nugatory.’ 

6 You then probably have reason to credit 
the report to which I alluded,’ said Miss Crane. 

‘ I did not mean to be so understood,’ said 
Mr. Colvin, calmly. 4 All that I intended was, 
that self-control , in every station and to every 
individual, is indispensable, if people would re- 
tain that equanimity of mind, which, depending 
on self-respect, is the essential of contentment 
and happiness.’ 

Miss Crane reddened, for she felt she had 
been displaying before one well skilled to read 
character, the meanness of envy and anger, 
while revealing a report confided to her under 
the solemn injunction of secrecy, and which 
she would never have pretended to have cred- 
ited, but for the pique she felt at not being 
bidden to the wedding. 

Indeed, no one who looked on James Mur- 
ray, could believe him guilty of aught mean or 
vicious. He had that noble ingenuousness of 
countenance which we always, in idea, associ- 
ate with great and good qualities ; (but we do 
not in the world always find our expectations re- 
alized) and he had also that air of manly confi- 
dence which usually distinguishes those who 
have always been the favorites of fortune, and 
consequently think themselves privileged to 
expect her favors. Yet his was not the triumph 
which the vanity of superior wealth imparts to 
5 * 


54 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


the weak minded. He had talents of a high 
order. lie had also been liberally educated, 
and had he been permitted to study a profes- 
sion, would probably have become eminent. 
But his father, a rich merchant, wished his 
son to pursue the same business ; it was the 
way he had acquired his estate, and he thought 
it the way in which James would best preserve 
it. But the old gentleman did not act with his 
usual sagacity when he sent his son to college to 
qualify him the better to become a merchant. 
There is a fitness in the manner of educating 
to the character and destination of the educa- 
ted, an adaptation of means to some contem- 
plated end, which should never be lost sight of 
by those who have the care of youth. James 
had good sense, and a fine genius, and had he 
considered the studies in which he spent so 
much time preparatory to some pursuit which 
was to be the business of his future life, he 
would doubtless have applied himself more 
diligently, and thus been spared many oppor- 
tunities for frolic, and saved from many tempt- 
ations to folly which those who are idle or 
unemployed cannot escape. He knew, and all 
his fellow students, that he was sent to college 
to obtain a diploma more as an ornamental ap- 
pendage to a rich man’s son, than for any real 
benefit. So he passed his four years in gayety 
and pleasure, and came home with his A. B. to 
take his station in his father’s counting-room. 
He was then but nineteen, and many suppos- 
ed his college acquirements and predilections 
would soon be obliterated from his mind by the 


WEDDING AND FUNERAL. 


55 


bustling life in which he had engaged. But it 
should be remembered that though the human 
heart is like water when we would write there- 
on lessons of virtue, it is like the rock to re- 
tain the impressions of vice. In what I am 
about to relate I would not be understood as 
reflecting on the management of any literary 
institution, or the manners of any particular 
class of students. Opportunities and examples 
of vice occur everywhere — and the only ef- 
i fectual shield to oppose their influence, with 
which parents can invest their dear ones, when 
sending them forth amid the temptations of 
evil, which will meet them in the college and 
in the cloister, as well as in the camp and 
court, is to imbue their souls with the precepts 
of our holy religion, and furnish, for their 
minds, at least, active employment. James 
was strictly educated in the principles of true 
piety — his parents were, what they professed 
to be, Christians — and though they had by 
honest industry acquired a large estate, they 
did not count their money merely by dollars — 
but by a better tale — by the good deeds it 
would enable them to perform. And they were 
both remarkable for temperance, and the sim- 
plicity, and even plainness, with which their 
table was furnished and all their domestic ar- 
rangements conducted. James had not, as 
some children unquestionably do, acquired a 
relish for rum before he could lisp its name — 
his 4 nurse 5 never was allowed to keep him 
4 quiet on sweetened brandy ’ — he had an aver- 
sion to spirituous liquors, as all, not taught 


56 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


to love it, have ; and so his parents had no 
fear he would ever fall a victim to its per- 
nicious poison. They exposed him too early, 
and unguardedly, to temptation. He went to 
college with plenty of cash at command, and 
plenty of leisure — he was unsuspicious and 
generous, and, as such lively and ardent youths 
generally are, fond of amusements and fond 
of applause. There were among his class- 
mates, some who had the meanness to wish to 
be treated at his expense, and these took ad- 
vantage of his inexperience and generosity — 
and by flattery, and ridicule, and persuasion, 
his squeamish prejudices, as they called them, 
were overcome, and he learned to take his 
glass as gaily and frequently as any member 
of the convivial club to which he belonged, 
and often paid, himself, the whole expense of 
the entertainment. It would be painful and 
almost impossible to paint the scenes in which 
he was often engaged, and the effect they had 
on his mind ; but yet, notwithstanding his con- 
duct, he never lost his sense of the purity and 
beauty of virtue, nor his determination to pur- 
sue its paths, whenever circumstances should 
make such a course easy and popular — that i3 
— when he returned home. 

But no one f can take fire in his bosom, and 
his clothes not be burned.’ James did return 
home, and his father soon after discovered, 
with a concern bordering on horror, the fatal 
relish for liquors which his son had aquired. 
The daughters of Mr. Murray were married, 
and all of them gone from the paternal roof — 


WEDDING AND FUNERAL. 


57 


James was the youngest child — the one who 
was to perpetuate his father’s name — his heir 
• — his hope, and his idol. There lay the fault 
of his parents. They had loved James too 
well, and trusted him too confidently, and ex- 
pected more from his discretion than human 
frailty can warrant us to hope. Remonstrance 
and reasoning, entreaties and reproaches, 
were all in succession tried by his parents. 
But though James ingenuously acknowledged 
his fault and lamented it, and promised refor- 
mation, he was found failing in strength of 
purpose to keep his resolutions of abstaining 
from brandy, till his father began utterly to 
despair of his amendment, and was about re- 
signing him to infamy — for, with commendable 
discretion, his parents had managed for near- 
ly a whole year to keep their son’s misconduct 
a profound secret in their family, lest the loss 
of his good name should be the signal for his 
losing all self-command — when a circumstance 
occurred which promised, by awakening the 
energy of a new passion, to grant him a chance 
for victory over an appetite that had hitherto 
wholly engaged his senses. James saw, and 
immediately loved Lucy Marsh. Her father 
was a very poor man, but beauty is not neces- 
sarily of the patrician order. It is as often 
found in the cottage as the palace, and Lucy, 
then just sixteen, was one of the loveliest girls 
that ever the light of the sun shone upon. It 
were in vain to try to describe her. A Ma- 
hometan would have likened her to the ‘dark 
eyed Houris,’ — a Christian lover to an ‘ angel,’ 


58 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


ana both unaouDiedly nave thought the superi- 
ority of loveliness on the side of the fair mortal. 
At least, so thought James Murray on the 
morning after his return from a ball, where he 
had been permitted to touch for the first time 
the hand of his charmer ; to sit by her side ; 
and though the confusion of his feelings did not 
permit him to say c soft things,’ he had never- 
theless looked ‘ things unutterable.’ He was 
sitting with his head reclined upon his desk, 
and musing upon the ( scenes of yesterday,’ 
so wrapped in contemplation that he did not 
hear his father’s step, nor notice his approach, 
till the old gentleman laid his hand upon his 
shoulder. James started on his feet, the blood 
rushed to his face, and he looked around with 
a half stupid, half frighted stare. A shade of 
deep sorrow passed over the pale countenance 
of Mr. Murray, and his voice quivered with 
emotion as he said — ‘ I am expecting my friend 
Mr. Alden, of New-York, every moment. He 
writes he shall dine with me to-day. I once 
hoped to have presented to him my son — but I 
see you will not be in a condition to appear. 
He will doubtless inquire for you, and what 
excuse shall I make for your absence ?’ 

James strove to reply, but it was some min- 
utes before the swelling of his heart would 
permit him to speak. At length he seemed to 
have taken his resolution, and said with ener- 
gy — 1 1 know your suspicions, sir, but for once 
you wrong me. Though I confess I am in- 
toxicated, it is not with wine’ — and then, with 
an eloquence his father had never before heard 


WEDDING AND FUNERAL. 59 

him display, he went on and told the whole his- 
tory of his love, and described the beauty of 
Lucy, concluding with an earnest asseveration, 
1 that if he might be permitted to marry her, 
he would never taste another drop of liquor 
again while he lived. ’ 

Mr. Murray gazed on James with that kind 
of eager and overwhelming joy which we may 
imagine glowed on the face of the father of 
the prodigal when witnessing the return of his 
son. But in a few moments the expression of 
his features changed, and a deep, and troubled 
concern overspread them as he said impress- 
ively — ‘ What you ask, my son, neither my 
honor or conscience will now permit me to ap- 
prove. I place interest out of the question. 
The father of Lucy Marsh is a good, honest, 
and industrious man ; but he has met with cros- 
ses and losses in the world, while I have been 
blessed and prosperous. We came into life 
equally destitute, we shall leave it on equal 
terms. Six feet of ground is all the richest 
man will permanently occupy, and, at death, 
the right of the poor to the possession of that 
freehold is never disputed. But, James, you 
describe Lucy as possessing every virtue of 
mind and heart that constitutes the excellence 
of the female character ; and I have before this 
heard her merits praised. Her husband should 
be equally worthy. Are you entitled to that 
distinction ?’ 

The color deepened on James’s cheek, but 
it was not all the hue of shame ; there was the 
kindling of proud and ardent resolve to deserve 


60 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


the boon he sought ; and he urged his deter- 
mination to be all that his father wished, so 
earnestly and sincerely, that Mr. Murray could 
not help feeling an assurance his son would, at 
least, make a strong effort to overcome his evil 
propensities. Still the father knew, for he ha 
been an observing man, how difficult it was 
effect a radical cure of the habit to whi 
James had yielded ; — that though love mig 
furnish arms, and the most effectual ones pe 
haps that could be wielded by a young man fo 
the combat, time only could determine the vic- 
tory. At length, after much pondering, he 
said ; 4 James, I have no doubt your intentions 
of reform are sincere, but till I am convinced 
of your perseverance in executing them, I can- 
not consent you shall address Lucy, or endea- 
vour to gain her affections. She must not be 
involved in the ruin which will finally over- 
whelm you if persisting in intemperance.’ 

4 What period of trial will satisfy you ?’ ask- 
ed James. 

4 As long for your recovery as for your fall.’ 

4 What ! four years !’ exclaimed James ; un- 
derstanding the allusion of his father to the 
time passed in college. 

4 Even so,’ replied the other — 4 and too short 
a time to establish entirely my confidence in 
your steadfastness. But pass that period in 
activity and integrity, and I shall have strong 
hope. I will myself speak to Mr. Marsh, and 
if he consents to my proposal, I will provide 
for the education of his daughter in such a man- 
ner as shall qualify her to become a member 


WEDDING AND FUNERAL. 


81 


of my family. But I shall inform her and her 
parents unreservedly of your past course, and 
present resolution, and she shall not be bound 
by any promise to you till the four years are 
expired.’ 

James knew when his father had come to 
a determination, and settled a plan of action 
on the principles of what he conceived duty , 
neither arguments or persuasions could move 
him from his purpose — so James acquiesced. 

Mr. Murray, though a good and judicious 
man, was not indifferent to worldly considera- 
tions. The business by which he had acquir- 
ed his property has a tendency to make cal- 
culation, and in some degree, even with the 
most liberal, pecuniary speculation, a favor- 
ite pursuit of the mind. It is not probable he 
would so unhesitatingly have approved the 
choice of his son, and consented he should 
marry one so poor, had he not hoped by that 
indulgence to win him back to rectitude and 
usefulness. But whatever were his motives, 
his promise, once given, was promptly execu- 
ted and sacredly kept. 

The parents of Lucy Marsh eagerly accep- 
ted proposals so advantageous to their daugh- 
ter, for they doubted not but the folly of 
James would soon be corrected. The propo- 
sal seemed to Lucy so like a scene of romance, 
she could not, for some time, be persuaded of 
its reality. She had been struck with the ap- 
pearance of James Murray, and though his 
station, so different from hers, had forbade her 
to hope engaging his serious affections, yet 
/ 6 


62 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


there had been, ever after the ball, wild 
dreams of fancy in her imagination, which her 
reason had been unable wholly to dispel. 
When convinced she was destined to become 
his wife, but one wish, one desire swelled her 
heart — that she might become worthy of him 
and of the excellent family who were adopting 
her as their own. 

To one not accustomed to reflect how much 
of the excellence and virtue of character is 
owing to energy in some favorite and useful 
pursuit, the effect which this arrangement had 
on James Murray would appear incredible. 
He seemed to have shaken off an incubus that 
had hitherto pressed down his faculties ; or 
only displayed them like the phantoms of that 
disease, distorted and horrible. He walked 
forth among men with a determination to be- 
come a man. He engaged in business with 
activity — he pursued it with energy, and soon 
felt that proud consciousness of deserving the 
approbation he received, which nothing but 
our own rectitude of principle and conduct can 
bestow. Without this self-approving voice 
within us, the applause of shouting millions is 
idle, empty praise. There is so much of real 
excitement in the mode of life in America — so 
much industry and enterprise in business — so 
much stirring of the spirit in political canvass- 
ing, in which all are interested, that it would 
seem no citizen of our republic need resort to 
i'tificial stimulants to remove 


‘ The settlings of a melancholy blood.’ 


WEDDING AND FUNERAL. 


63 


Certain it is that James Murray found the 
pursuits in which he engaged, of essential 
benefit in breaking off the associations of his 
habit, and thus freeing him from its tyranny. 
Yet perhaps to that restlessness which his first 
abstinence from liquor engendered, may mostly 
be attributed the eagerness with which he im- 
mediately engaged in politics. For this pur- 
suit he was, by nature, admirably fitted. His 
commanding and handsome person always at- 
tracted attention, and he had a persuasive, 
and whenever he chose to exert it, a powerful 
voice, whose tones thrilled the heart. His ed- 
ucation also had given him advantages which 
but few of the men among whom he resided, 
possessed, and young as he was, he soon be- 
came distinguished as the leader of his party, 
and so effectually secured their confidence, 
that before he was twenty three, he was elected 
a member of the state legislature. His own 
ambition and the fondest wishes of his parents 
seemed realized ; and his father, at his death, 
which occurred about that time, as he embrac- 
ed and blessed his son, said, — ‘ My cup of 
earthly joy is full — I depart in peace, and 
leave you, James, in the full belief that we 
shall meet where a crown of rejoicing awaits 
those who have overcome temptation.’ 

Heath is called the king of terrors — but may 
he not often be the angel of consolation ? 
How much of mortal sorrow is spared or end- 
ed when he drops his sable curtain, and clo- 
ses the drama of human life ! Mr. Murray 
died in peace — confident of the worth of his 


64 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


beloved son. Had he survived ten years — but 
I am anticipating. In our country, especially 
in the new and thinly settled towns, a man who 
proposes marrying a wife, usually signifies his 
intention by building a house; and consequent- 
ly, a new house is esteemed a very important 
affair to the new married couple. It seemed 
quite unnecessary that James should follow 
this fashion, as his father left a good and con- 
venient dwelling ; but he was ambitious, and so 
the new house was determined on. In size 
and elegance it was to exceed any building in 
the village. 

( Americans have no taste for the antique,’ 
says the European antiquary, 1 therefore they 
are rude and ignorant, and unpolished.’ But 
is it not the same principle of taste only modi- 
fied by the difference of circumstances, which 
leads the American to boast of his new edifice, 
and the European to venerate his ancient one ? 
In both cases the pride of preference is asso- 
ciated with the idea of merit. The European 
prizes his old castle because it is blazoned 
with the feats of his ancestors. The Ameri- 
can prefers his new dwelling because it is the 
work of his own efforts ; the one describes the 
magnificence that once distinguished his do- 
main — the other shows the improvement he has 
made on his estate. And if personal merit be 
more praiseworthy than imputed excellence, 
then is not the advantage on the side of out 
countrymen ? 

But these remarks are quite irrelevant to 
the subject — the new house of James Murray ^ 


WEDDING AND FUNERAL 


65 


yet it would undoubtedly have been better for 
him to have cultivated a taste for the antique, 
and been contented with his father’s old dwell- 
ing. It was during the progress of the build- 
ing that, forgetting or disregarding the solemn 
promise he had pledged his father, he again 
began to taste the prohibited brandy. He 
took but very little, however, and flattered 
himself he had acquired sufficient strength of 
mind to restrain and regulate his appetite by 
the suggestions of reason. It seemed a re- 
proach on his character as a man, to lack firm- 
ness to face his enemy. It was puerile to be 
always trembling, like a whipped schoolboy, 
when a glass was offered him ; and finally, he 
could not refuse without being considered 
mean, as his workmen would imply he did not 
wish them to drink, if he himself never tasted. 
So he reasoned, and for several months no 
perceptible bad effects followed his * tem- 
perate use of ardent spirit,’ as he styled it. 
About three weeks before he was to be mar- 
ried, a political bet, in which he was engaged, 
was decided in his favor. The forfeiture was 
to be paid in punch, and James Murray became 
intoxicated. While under the delirium of his 
temporary insanity, he presented himself be- 
fore his intended bride. 

Lucy Marsh was just as lovely as a summer 
rose, and just as easily bowed. She had nev- 
er suspected James of having violated his pro- 
mise — she was utterly unprepared for this storm 
of affliction — she did not utter a word to him, 
but fainted 5 and he had to be forced from her 
6 * 


66 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


presence, and carried home. The tumult of 
his feelings, on recovering from his paroxysm, 
can scarcely be imagined. After bitter self- 
reproaches and curses on his folly, and resolu- 
tions of the most rigid abstinence in future, he 
repaired to the dwelling of Lucy to obtain, if 
possible, her forgiveness. He knew she was 
then released from all obligations to marry him 
—that his father had advised, indeed enjoined 
it on her, as she valued her own happiness, 
never to wed his son if he again yielded to in- 
temperance. But James knew Lucy loved 
him, and he knew, too, that women are prone 
to palliate the failings, and trust the promises 
of those they love ; that they are, by nature, 
unsuspicious, and confiding, and forgiving. 
The event showed he judged rightly. Reason 
urged to Lucy all the risk she was incurring ; 
imagination portrayed all the sorrows and ago- 
nies she was exposed to suffer, if James did 
not reform, and hope could hardly be so cred- 
ulous as to believe in his permanent reforma- 
tion, when he had thus broken the solemn and 
voluntary pledge to his own father. But still, 
her heart — 0, she could not stifle the plead- 
ings of her heart. And when James came 
before her, his tears, and entreaties, and pro- 
testations prevailed. She forgave him, and 
became his wife. She did not insist on his mak- 
ing to her any particular promises of sobriety ; 
and in that she acted wisely. The teasing in- 
terference of a woman, no man of sense and 
spirit will brook — none ought to brook. And 
Lucy had too much discretion to expect that 


WEDDING AND FUNERAL. 


67 


a promise of temperance made before mar- 
riage, would bind her husband, if the sacred 
vows he made at the altar to cherish her, the 
preservation of his own character, and rever- 
ence for morality and piety, could not restrain 
him. She trusted, therefore, to his affection 
and his honor, and for more than two years his 
conduct fully justified her confidence. 

####### 

Mrs. Colvin was reclining one cold winter 
evening before a bright fire, her work table be- 
fore her, and as she listened to the storm that 
beat furiously against the windows, and her eye 
wandered around the commodious and well 
furnished apartment in which she was seated, 
she reflected on the blessings she enjoyed ; 
and contrasting her situation with millions of 
her fellow-beings, in different parts of the 
world, all equally with herself susceptible of 
pain and pleasure, she breathed a fervent 
thanksgiving that she had had her birthright 
and habitation assigned her in a land so favor- 
ed as America. Her husband hastily entered. 

4 You look fatigued and sorrowful,’ said Mrs. 
Colvin. 

4 I have jus* /come from the dwelling of af- 
fliction,’ he replied. 

4 0, I knew this was a world of suffering ! ’ 
— exclaimed Mrs. Colvin ; 4 and yet I have 
been this whole hour indulging in congratula- 
tions on my own happy situation, and inferring 
because 1 felt no grief, no privation, all my 
neighbours were equally blessed.’ 

4 When,’ replied her husband, 4 men yield to 


68 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


temptation, to sin — suffering must follow. In- 
deed in our country, more than in any other 
on earth, deviations from morality and integri- 
ty are punished either with the loss of fame, 
fortune, or public confidence ; — and James 
Murray has forfeited them all.’ 

4 Is his situation as bad as we have heard ?’ 
inquired Mrs. Colvin. 

4 Worse, far worse,’ returned the other. 
‘ We heard he would probably have sufficient 
to pay his creditors, but he is a bankrupt by 
several thousands, the mortgage on his estate 
is foreclosed, and every article of personal 
property has been attached ; the sheriff was 
removing the furniture when I reached the 
house.’ 

4 Is it possible that he can have spent the 
large estate his father left him ?’ inquired Mrs. 
Colvin. 4 It is but a little time — a year or 
two, since he became so dissipated.’ 

4 There is nothing more easy than for a man 
to ruin himself,’ returned her husband. 4 Let 
him neglect his business, bet with every one 
who will venture a wager, and generally take 
the losing side, and keep constantly in a state 
of inebriety, and his estate will soon be wasted. 
But James Murray was never so rich as many 
imagined. Much of his wealth depended, as 
most of our country merchants’ estates do, on 
his credit ; and then he built his costly house, 
which he ought not to have done. And he has 
been intemperate longer than you mentioned ; 
ever since he lost his election four years ago. 
His wife told me he never tasted liquor after 


WEDDING AND FUNERAL. 


69 

their marriage, till that disappointment. But 
his relish for spirit had been before acquired, 
and when a man has unfortunately contract- 
ed that thirst, every extraordinary emotion, 
whether of joy or grief, or anger, seems to 
awaken it anew. There is not, for such an 
one, much hope of permanent reformation. ’ 

1 Where is his poor wife ? and how does she 
bear her trial ?’ asked Mrs. Colvin. 

‘ I found her in her small parlour — her little 
children gathered around or in her arms — like 
a brooding dove sheltering her young ones 
from the approach of danger. Her face was 
pale as marble, but perfectly calm ; yet at the 
first expression of my concern she burst into 
a passionate weeping. I endeavoured to con- 
sole her, and promised my assistance. She 
dried her tears as she said — ‘ Do not think, sir, 
I am grieving for the loss of our property, or be- 
cause I must leave this dwelling. The display 
of wealth is not necessary to my happiness, 
indeed I think it has made me more wretched 
— the splendor by which I was surrounded 
seeming to mock my heart’s misery. But my 
husband — it is for his degradation, his ruin I 
weep. 0 ! I could joyfully share poverty with 
him — I would work to support him — I would 
willingly be a slave, or lay down my own life, 
if he might be persuaded to return to virtue — 
if he could be reclaimed !’ 

‘ What did you say to her ?’ asked Mrs. 
Colvin, weeping. 

‘ I could suggest nothing of earthly comfort,’ 
returned her husband. 4 1 could only direct 


70 ' AMERICAN SKETCHES. 

her to that balm for sorrow which is found only 
in him who has declared that all things shall 
work together for good to them who love God.’ 

( What will become of her and her dear lit- 
tle family ?’ again reiterated Mrs. Colvin. 

‘ They will not be left to suffer,’ said her 
husband. ‘ Her merits and her grief touched 
every heart. I saw tears in the eyes of many 
fi*m men, when speaking of her situation. In- 
deed, the principal creditors declared they 
would not have urged their claims, and taken 
all the property, had they not thought it might 
possibly rouse Murray to exertion. To show 
kindness to him by allowing him means of in- 
dulging his depraved appetite, would be cruel- 
ty to his family. But we have made arrange- 
ments that will secure for Mrs. Murray what 
she needs for present comfort. The family 
are to be removed to that house of mine which 
stands close by the dwelling of Mr. John Rus- 
sell. It is small, to be sure, but comfortable, 
and we shall furnish it. You, ladies, must 
find employment for Mrs. Murray ; she told 
me she would sew for any one.’ 

‘ I do not wish her to work for me,’ said Mrs. 
Colvin, eagerly ; ‘ whatever I can do to assist 
her shall be cheerfully rendered.’ 

‘You forget, my dear,’ said her husband, 
smiling, 6 that the necessity of receiving alms 
is, to the delicate and sensitive mind, the 
most galling link in the chain of poverty. But 
few of our native born Yankees, and none who 
have the spirit of a Yankee, will long submit to 
the ignominy of subsisting wholly by charity 


WEDDING AND FUNERAL. 


71 


There is a pride of independence among us — a 
nobility of soul, that spurns at vassalage, in 
whatever way the yoke is imposed. Then do 
not add to the embarrassments of Mrs. Murray, 
by an offer of charity, which she may not feel 
at liberty to refuse, but which will mortify her 
to accept. Employ her, and pay her just as 
liberally as you please, but let there be some 
reciprocity between you. You will then se- 
cure more than her ‘ thank ye’ — her esteem, 
gratitude, and love.’ 

4 But will not James Murray himself be 
capable of doing something for his family ?’ 
inquired this amiable woman. 

4 That is a question which cannot at present 
be solved,’ said her husband. ‘ J ames is a good 
penman and accountant, and can find employ- 
ment if he will keep sober. O, when I looked 
on him, extended as he was on the floor, in a 
state of utter insensibility to everything pas- 
sing around him — the removal of his property 
— the agony of his wife — and then when I 
thought of his early promise — his excellent dis- 
position — his fine talents — his education — all 
the advantages with which he began his ca- 
reer, and the eminence he had obtained — and 
saw all lost, ruined by his own folly, I could 
not but weep over him. How much he has al- 
ready suffered ! and how much he must here- 
after endure ! He sees those who once wait- 
ed on his smile, now scornfully pass him by ; 
he reads contempt or pity in those counte- 
nances that once brightened at his approach ; 
he finds himself shunned, neglected, orridicul- 


72 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


ed, where his lightest word was once heard 
with attention. All this he must bear, and 
who will not acknowledge that punishment 
follows the transgressor ? It ought to every- 
where ; it invariably does among the descend- 
ants of the Pilgrims. Rank may, in govern- 
ments less pure and popular than ours, secure 
the semblance of respect to the unworthy. A 
lord, though drunk, is still a lord, and para- 
sites may flatter him, and servants attend him. 
But the spontaneous esteem, cofidence, and 
applause of our free, independent, and intelli- 
gent citizens, cannot be obtained by a degrad- 
ed and worthless character.’ 

# # # # # # 

The morning exhibited all the calmness, and 
beauty, and gladness, that usually pervades 
the summer sky, the day after a violent thun- 
der shower has cleared the atmosphere of all 
impure vapors. The birds then sing their 
gayest notes, as if congratulating each oth- 
er that the storm has so happily passed by. 
There was a fresher green on the trees and 
fields — a serenity in the deep blue sky, pictur- 
ing, as we may imagine, the repose of the 
spirit, after the storms of earth are ended, and 
it rests beneath the shade of the tree of life. 
But amid all this beauty, joy, and peace,/ 
there came a memento of man’s mortality. 
The sound of a funeral knell from the village 
spire, fell more mournful than usual on the 
ear, contrasted as it was with the rejoicing of 
nature. 


WEDDING AND FUNERAL. 


73 


4 It is the burial of Mrs. Murray,’ said Mr. 
Colvin, to a stranger who addressed him with 
an inquiry. 4 Poor Lucy ! she will find the 
grave a refuge from suffering.’ 

4 Was it she who was once called Lucy 
Marsh ?’ inquired the stranger. 

4 The same.’ 

The stranger was much agitated. 4 1 saw 
her once,’ he remarked, 4 just before she was 
married. She was the most beautiful human 
being I ever beheld. I heard that her hus- 
band had failed — that he was intemperate — 
and my journey through the village was in- 
duced by curiosity to learn the situation of that 
lovely woman. I confess, I hoped I should 
find that her husband was no more.’ 

4 You would probably then feel interested to 
learn some particulars of her fate,’ said Mr. 
Colvin. 

The stranger bowed. 

4 You observed you had heard of the failure 
of James Murray,’ continued Mr. Colvin. 

4 His father was my intimate friend, and once 
did me a signal service ; and I wished to ex- 
press my gratitude by showing kindness to the 
son ; so I established James and his family in 
a house of my own. This building adjoined 
one in which lived a man who had once been 
an admirer of Lucy Marsh.’ 

4 There were many such, I presume,’ said 
the stranger. 

4 Her beauty was doubtless much admired,’ 
returned Mr. Colvin, 4 but John Russell, as I 


7 


74 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


understood, had sanguine expectations of ob- 
taining her hand, and had she never seen 
James Murray, would probably have been 
successful. Poets may celebrate the omnipo- 
tence of Cupid, but from observation I am in- 
clined to believe that, in at least one half of the 
matches, propinquity has quite as much influ- 
ence as the arrows of the blind god. But 
Mrs. Murray loved her husband truly and un- 
dividedly, and excepting occasional starts of 
passion or petulance when intoxicated, he was, 
till his mind became inflamed with jealousy, a 
most affectionate husband. This jealousy, ex- 
cited by a trifling circumstance, is a sad ex- 
emplification of that alienation of reason which 
is often caused by intemperance. Men seem 
then possessed with the spirit of demons ; 
rage, envy, hatred, and they delight in inflict- 
ing misery. I have said the house, in which 
this unfortunate family resided, adjoined that 
of Mr. John Russell. His was a very ele- 
gant dwelling, for he had been gaining an es- 
tate while James Murray was dissipating his 
— and Mrs. Murray happened one day to re- 
mark on the prosperity of Mr. Russell and his 
handsome house. Her husband instantly be- 
came exasperated, and pouring a torrent of 
abuse both on her and Mr. Russell, declared 
he would not reside so near a man whom he 
doubted not was the favored paramour of his 
wife. From that hour, his conduct to his 
family became changed and cruel. I cannot 
enter into details, your heart would sicken at 


WEDDING AND FUNERAL. 


75 


the recital, and it makes mine bleed to think 
of the sufferings of that amiable woman.’ 

The stranger was evidently much agitated, 
yet he begged Mr. Colvin to proceed. 

4 1 must be brief,’ returned he ; 4 and can 
only say that Mrs. Murray was so persecuted 
and rendered so wretched, by the jealousy of 
her husband, that she consented to remove 
from the house. Her husband provided anoth- 
er. It was a lone building, situated in a wild 
place, and half a mile from any neighbour. The 
house was in a ruinous state, the roof pervious 
to every storm, and there was not a glass win- 
dow in the building. In short, it was a mere 
wreck ; 4 the very rats instinctively had quit 
it,’ — yet there, this once angelic and still inter- 
esting woman, was compelled to reside. The 
sorrows of the poor are not understood from 
description ; to be known they must be felt. 
Our charitable people did much for Mrs. Mur- 
ray and her little ones, yet still I have no doubt 
they often suffered both from cold and hunger. 
And then they were subjected to the capricious 
cruelty of a drunken man. 0 ! would young 
ladies but once be sensible of that depth of 
mortification and wretchedness which a woman 
is doomed to feel who has an intemperate hus- 
band, they never would for a moment hesitate 
to discard a lover who had been guilty of that 
degrading crime. They never would wed with 
such an one, though he were before as dear as 
their own life ; they never could marry him — 
no, never, never, never ! You doubtless won- 


7G 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


der how such a delicate woman could live, sub- 
jected to such distresses. The capacity of 
the human mind and frame to endure, is, in 
many cases, indeed astonishing. Mrs. Murray 
had the consolations of religion for support, 
and then affection for her children strengthen- 
ed her to £ bear up under the load of life. 5 Yet 
even the exercise of her piety was often fraught 
with the most exquisite agony, for how lost, 
when judged by the holy law of God, appeared 
the character, and how terrible the condition of 
the husband she still fondly loved ! Every 
day seemed widening the gulf between them, 
and rendering more fixed and irreconcilable 
the habits and principles which must finally 
separate them forever. 

He who created us, alone knoweth why some 
of his children are appointed to win their heav- 
enly crown through so much tribulation. To 
the trials of Mrs. Murray were now to be add- 
edj the sickness and death of her two young- 
est children. Her eldest, a daughter, had 
never enjoyed good health, and the hardships 
and wants to which she was often exposed, 
doubtless, injured her, till finally she became 
subject to fits of epilepsy, and her case was 
pronounced incurable. But still, the mother 
had one precious treasure, a fine boy, just en- 
tering on his seventh year, and the most per- 
fectly lovely and engaging child I ever beheld. 
In him she £ garnered up her heart,’ and re- 
posed all her earthly hopes ; in him she could 
love his father’s image without self-reproach, 


WEDDING AND FUNERAL. 


77 


and her affections continually wounded, or 
trampled on by her husband, twined around 
her child with those close foldings, whose de- 
lighted throb is so nearly allied to agony. 
This feeling, the fever of love, is never expe- 
rienced by those who live tranquilly, and have 
not been necessitated to centre that affection 
and hope on one object, which should have 
been divided among a family. Last Monday 
morning I called at their dwelling. I found 
Mrs. Murray in better spirits than usual, and 
there was a cheerfulness in her manner, I had 
not for a long time witnessed. While we were 
conversing, a carriage, in which were two 
gentlemen, passed. A glove fell from the 
chaise, and little James, who was playing be- 
fore the house, sprang with the agility of a 
fawn, picked it up, and presented it with a low 
bow, to the owner. The exceeding beauty of 
the child, contrasted, as it was, with his mean 
habiliments, made him a most interesting ob- 
ject. The gentlemen were undoubtedly struck, 
as I observed they pointed towards him, while 
conversing with much animation. At length 
one of them called the boy and presented him 
a dollar. 

I wish you could have seen the little fellow 
when he came bounding into the house to ex- 
hibit his prize. He was too young to feel any 
mortification from being thought an object of 
charity — there was nothing but pure joy in his 
sensations. His bright eyes fairly lightened 
with pleasure, — and his rosy face laughed and 


78 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


dimpled all over, while his breath came so 
short and eager, he could hardly find words 
to express his feelings, as he exclaimed — 
‘ Mother, dear mother, I shall buy something 
for you — I shall buy everything you want !’ 
Tears and smiles were blended on the faded 
and sad, but still sweet countenance of his 
mother. I read her thoughts — she was an- 
ticipating the day when her boy would be her 
friend and protector. At that moment her 
husband entered. He had, as I afterwards 
learned, been that morning refused credit for 
a glass of liquor, and in the contention that 
ensued his wrath had been treated with con- 
tempt, till he finally became so outrageous he 
was driven from the store ; the very one he 
had formerly owned. I saw there was a 
terrific frown on his brow, and that his wife 
shuddered ; but his little son, elated and joy- 
ous, saw or heeded not the gathering storm. 
He sprang to his father, and holding up his 
money again told what he was intending to 
buy for his mother. 

4 You shall do no such thing,’ thundered the 
savage parent, snatching the money from the 
child’s grasp. 1 Go, bring me yonder bottle — 
I will see if I cannot have a glass of rum !’ 

4 0 ! give me my dollar, father, — give me 
my dollar,’ — cried the child, clinging to his 
father’s knee. 

With the fury of a madman flashing from his 
eyes, that father raised his clenched fist. 
Mrs. Murray shrieked, and we both sprang 


WEDDING AND FUNERAL. 


79 


forward to intercept the blow. It was too 
late ! 

I have no idea James Murray intended to 
kill his child, or indeed that he knew, at the 
time, what he did ; — but when he saw the 
guiltless victim of his wrath, lying like a 
crushed lamb — senseless — pale as marble — 
the blood streaming from his mouth and nos- 
trils, it recalled the maniac to his senses. 
The chords of his better feeling, which for a 
long time had not vibrated, were touched — 
and the fountain of his affections, which had 
seemed withered, scorched, dried up, sudden- 
ly gushed forth with the stream of tenderness. 
With the most careful attention he assisted me 
to raise the body of his child — he chafed his 
temples and little hands — he spoke soothingly 
to his wife, in the tone and with the words of 
endearment, once so familiar to her ear. We 
essayed everything to revive the child, but 
in vain — the spirit of the young sufferer had 
passed from earth. When we became convin- 
ced that life was extinct, the lamentations of 
the mother were heart-rending. Her husband 
listened one moment — his features were con- 
vulsed with agony, and I hoped and prayed 
he might weep — but that relief was denied 
him. Suddenly his countenance assumed a 
fixed and horrid expression ; it was the wild- 
ness of utter despair. His eyes glared, he 
gnashed his teeth, and clenching both hands, 
invoked on his own head the most awful de- 
nunciations, and rushed from the house. 


80 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


Mrs. Murray — but I see you are distress- 
ed, — and I will not attempt to describe her 
feelings. She died the next morning, and I 
rejoiced at her release from a world she had 
found so filled with thorns. Yesterday, just 
as the thunder was bursting in fury, the body 
of J ames Murray was found. He had drown- 
ed himself ! Probably he never paused after 
leaving his house, as the expression of his 
features was unchanged — his teeth were set — 
and his hands still clenched. We buried him 
in silence, near the spot where his body was 
discovered ; and yonder, attended by nearly 
all the inhabitants of our village, as mourners, 
come the remains of his murdered child and 
victim wife.’ 


ANN ELLSWORTH. 



* Wooing thee, I found thee of more value 

Than stamps in gold, or sums in sealed bags ; 

And ’tis the very riches of thyself 

That now I aim at — ’ Shakspeare. 


About one mile from the pretty village of 

N , that stretches along the banks of the 

fertile Connecticut, there lived, some thirty 
years since, a farmer by the name of Williams, 
He was a good man, in the Yankee sense of 
the term, that is, industrious and thriving, and 
accounted honest and pious — for he lived 
aboveboard, paid all his contracts punctually, 
and belonged to the church. So he was called 
a good man, and on many accounts he truly 
deserved the epithet ; but there was one foil to 
his virtues — he was avaricious. 

The acquisition of property is, in our coun- 
try, so very creditable, that probably many 
who yield themselves slaves to the love of mo- 
ney are not aware of the dominion it exercises 
over their hearts and passions. They do not 
intend to love the world, or the things thereof, 
unduly ; but they want to have the comforts of 
life, and the means of entertaining their friends, 
and somewhat to bestow in charity, and a por- 


82 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


tion for their children, and many other items, 
which appear indispensable; and thus they 
deem the eagerness with which they go on in- 
creasing their hoards, but the duty they owe 
themselves, families and society. 

I have said Williams was a thriving man, in- 
deed he was rich for the sphere in which he 
moved. He cultivated his excellent farm with 
great care, the eye of the traveller was always 
arrested by his charming situation, and it was 
often remarked that so quiet and pleasant a 
residence must be the abode of content and 
happiness. How little of either are dependent 
on worldly prosperity ! 

Both Williams and his wife loved the world 
so well they had but little love to bestow on 
each other ; and though they both toiled hard, 
and rose up early, and sat up late, and eat ‘ the 
bread of carefulness,’ it was not from the sym- 
pathy of affection, but to become rich. They 
gained their wishes; but then they found, as all 
will find, that whenever worldly desires are in- 
ordinately indulged, their gratification is sure 
to bring disappointment and vexation, if not 
misery, to the worldling. They thought, and 
people generally said, that all their uneasiness 
was caused by the untoward behaviour of their 
only son. Obed Williams was one of those com- 
mon characters, and they are much the most 
numerous class, which seem to have no distin- 
guishing lineament, but take their form and 
pressure entirely from surrounding objects and 
accidental circumstances. He was in infan- 
cy rather a sickly child, and so his mother 


ANN ELLSWORTH. 


33 


constantly indulged him in every whim — and 
in childhood he was, chiefly in consequence 
of that indulgence, cross and wilful ; and then 
his father, who made Solomon’s mode of gov- 
ernment his standard, as constantly whipped 
him for every fault, and it is difficult to decide 
which mode of treatment had the worst effect 
on his disposition. To complete his evil des- 
tiny, it was often whispered in his ear, and that 
too by his own mother, that he was a rich man’s 
only child, and would, sometime, inherit a large 
estate, and have it in his power to do just as 
he pleased. Should it excite wonder that, as 
he grew towards manhood, and therefore found 
himself exempted from corporal punishment, he 
displayed a selfish, sullen, overbearing temper? 
His parents, by their injudicious management 
had increased, if not kindled it; and they were 
punished by his wilfulness and disobedience. 
But still Mr. Williams hoped that if his son 
married a good wife he would improve, and with 
his usual sagacity, when pecuniary profit was in 
question, he had selected such an one for Obed. 

‘ Your cousin, Ann Ellsworth, will be here 
to-morrow,’ said Mr. Williams — ‘ and, Obed, 
I do hope you will not show any of your con- 
trary temper, but be sociable and endeavour to 
please her. Ann is a girl worth pleasing, for 
she will have a fortune of four thousand dollars; 
— and her mother, before she died, consented 
that Ann should marry you.’ 

1 What, whether 1 choose it, or no?’ said 
Obed, looking up with an expression of fea- 
tures between a simper and a sneer. 


84 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


( You will choose it, Obed,’ replied his fa- 
ther, in a soothing tone. ‘ Ann was very hand- 
some when I saw her last, which is about three 
years ago. It was when her mother died, and 
I wished to bring the girl right home with me 
and have her learn to work ; but she was so 
anxious to go back to her school, and her mo- 
ther had promised her she should go and com- 
plete her education. I don’t call such an 
education complete by any means; but I did not 
like to contradict sister then, as she had been 
very loath to sign her name to the will that 
obliges Ann to forfeit her fortune if she mar- 
ries without my consent. I pressed that mat- 
ter, and gained my point, and let sister have 
her own way in the rest.’ 

c May be Ann will not like me,’ said Obed, 
with an expression of thought which his face 
seldom wore. 

£ She must like you, or lose her property, 
or it will be forfeited to me if she marries 
without my consent — and I shall not give it to 
any one but you. But say nothing to Ann 
about it. Girls always like to have their own 
way in marrying, and seldom love those their 
friends choose, so I have contrived to keep 
the matter a secret except from a few who 
were witnesses in the matter. You must try 
to please your cousin, and as soon as you can 
persuade her to marry you I will put you in 
possession of all her fortune, and one third of 
my own estate.’ 

£ I should think you might give me one half,’ 
replied Obed, with a dissatisfied and sullen 


ANN ELLSWORTH. 


85 


air, 4 I don’t see why old folks want to keep 
everything for themselves.’ 

Mr. Williams regarded his son with that 
look of bitter anguish which the discovery of 
ingratitude in a child excites in a parent’s 
heart. There were no soothing reflections to 
allay the sting ; something in his own breast 
whispered that he deserved chastisement ; that 
he had been guilty of the sin of covetousness, 
while professing the most disinterested con- 
cern for his orphan niece, and remorse for the 
part he had acted in obtaining the will, and 
an indefinite dread, that somehow, his own 
child was to be the instrument of punishing 
his fault, came so home to his mind and con- 
science, that, covering his face with his hands, 
the tears he could not restrain he allowed to 
flow. 

Obed was not naturally hard-hearted, and 
touched with this exhibition of sorrow he wish- 
ed to comfort his father, but not knowing what 
to say, he stood twirling his hat till Mr. Wil- 
liams, with that feeling of impatience which 
self reproach awakens in the unhumbled heart, 
angrily bade him go about his business. 

Obed departed whistling. 

4 Pray where do you keep your books, cousin 
Obed ?’ said Ann Ellsworth, the morning but 
'one after her arrival. 4 1 have searched every 
part of the house, and excepting the Bible, find 
nothing worth reading, and I really want some- 
thing to amuse me.’ 

4 1 should never think of looking for a book 
to amuse myself.’ 


8 


86 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


4 And what do you like ?’ inquired Ann. 

4 0, hunting and fishing in the summer, 
and skating and playing checkers in the win- 
ter.’ 

Ann laughed, but Obed had sufficient pene- 
tration to discern that what he had said had 
not raised him in her esteem ; and as he real- 
ly wished to please her, he attempted to apol- 
ogize for his want of taste and literature. 

4 We have but little time to spend in read- 
ing,’ said he, 4 or my parents have none. I, 
to be sure, am not hurried, for I will not 
drudge on the farm, and I suppose I should 
have liked reading as well as you do if I had 
*>nly had entertaining books ; but father never 
tyould buy anything but land and cattle, and 
ill he thinks about is getting money. He has 
laid up as much as I shall want to spend, and 
that’s one good thing ; so there is no need of 
my working ; and as I have nothing to read, I 
must hunt, and fish, and play checkers.’ 

Ann had now learned that her cousin was 
idle and illiterate, and though she knew noth- 
ing of the defects of his temper, yet so com- 
pletely did his self-exposure destroy the favor- 
able opinion which his good looks, — for if a 
fine manly form, regular features, and fair 
complexion, constitute beauty, he was really 
very handsome, — had inspired, that she never, 
from that hour, thought him agreeable. 

4 You will find books enough if you go down 
to Mrs. Grant’s,’ said Mrs. Williams, to the 
reiterated wishes of her niece for something 
to read. 4 They are always reading, though 


ANN ELLSWORTH. 


87 


they are so poor I don’t know how they can 
afford to spend their time.’ 

‘ Who is Mrs. Grant, and where does she 
live ?’ asked Ann. 

i O, she is a poor widow, and with her four 
daughters, lives in a little house, down in what 
we call the valley, about half a mile off’ 

‘ A poor widow, living in a small house,’ 
thought Ann, as, glancing her eye around the 
handsome apartment in which she was seated, 
she pondered the propriety of a visit. 

‘ They are poor enough,’ continued Mrs. 
Williams, c and have nothing only what they 
earn by taking in work and braiding straw.’ 

4 Braiding straw !’ thought Ann, as she 
surveyed in a mirror her own elegant dress, 
and she almost resolved to think no more of 
the Grants. 

c And yet,’ resumed her aunt, 6 to hear them 
talk about their books, you would think they 
did nothing but read; and then they are all so 
proud of Charles.’ 

1 And who is Charles ?’ inquired Ann. 

6 0, he is their brother, the oldest of the 
family; and he was a very ill-looking child, 
and he don’t look much better now. I wish 
you could see him beside of Obed. But 
Charles was called a good scholar, and some- 
how he has got along in his studies, wonder- 
fully, quite beyond my expectations ; for ho 
has studied law, and is now practising, though 
he is only two years older than Obed. But 
Obed thinks, I ’spose, that he is rich enough 
without studying ’ 


88 


AMERICAN SKETCHE3. 


Ann Ellsworth was a little capricious, for 
she had been a petted child; and gay and high 
spirited, for she was very fair, and had been 
flattered, — but she had good sense, and when- 
ever she reflected, her decisions w r ere sure to 
be influenced by reason and right principles. 
She did reflect on what her aunt had commu- 
nicated, and the conclusion was to seek the 
acquaintance of the Miss Grants. 

Their dwelling, a low house, containing only 
three small rooms, besides a little one in the 
garret which had been the study of Charles, 
and was now his sisters’ library, stood in a 
quiet nook about twenty rods from the high 
road, at the foot of a green hill ; and the front 
of the building was almost entirely covered 
and concealed by woodbine, and lilacs, and 
prime rose bushes, then in full blossom. Ann 
loved flowers, and books, and intelligent con- 
versation ; at Mrs. Grant’s she found them all, 
and after a few days’ intercourse she could not, 
very complacently, reflect on the foolish preju- 
dice which had so nearly prevented her from 
cultivating the acquaintance of this amiable 
family, merely because they were poor, lived 
in a small house, and braided straw. There 
is, in sincere piety, an elevating principle, 
which never fails to dignify its possessor. 
Let the poor inhabitant of a cottage feel him- 
self an heir of eternal glory, and envy at the 
prosperity of his rich neighbour, and repinings 
at his own hard fortune, vain regrets and idle 
wishes, are all repressed. He bows submis- 
sively to the dispensations of that Providence 


ANN ELLSWORTH. 


89 


which has in this life assigned him a lowly lot; 
and looking only to the glorious prize set be- 
fore him, his mind and conversation are, per- 
haps insensibly to himself, imbued with the 
purity and moral grandeur of that faith which 
is destined to inherit a throne in heaven. The 
devotion of Mrs. Grant was thus pure and 
elevated. She had none of that morose, mys- 
tical, mechanical affectation of piety which is 
dependent on settled phrases, and stated sea- 
sons. Her worship was not dictated by fear, 
but inspired by love. i Our Father which art 
in heaven,’ always suggested to her heart the 
idea of a tender, benevolent and holy parent, 
who was constantly watching over her and 
hers for good ; and when afflictions came they 
were but the chastenings of his mercy. It 
was impossible that Ann Ellsworth should be- 
come, as it were, domesticated beneath the 
peaceful roof of Mrs. Grant without observing 
the difference that existed between its inmates 
and that of her uncle’s elegant dwelling. In 
the latter, all was hurry and anxiety, labor 
and care ; exemplifying the truth of the wise 
man’s remark, that 1 the abundance of the rich 
will not suffer him to sleep.’ 

And then the acquisition of riches brought 
no enjoyment, except merely, the idea of pos- 
sessing them. The elegant and costly furni- 
ture that decked the parlour of Mrs. Williams, 
instead of awakening in her mind elegance of 
taste, only suggested ideas of the money it had 
cost, and the care and trouble which would be 
necessary to preserve it from injury She fear 
8 * 


90 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


ed to have her husband or child set their feet on 
the carpeted floor, and whenever they did, then 
were sharp reproofs on her part, saucy retorts 
from her son, and surly grumblings from the 
lord of the mansion on the inconvenience to 
which such newfangled decorations subjected 
him. 

But at Mrs. Grant’s, all was quietness and 
affection ; and though they were necessitated 
to earn their livelihood, they did not neglect to 
cultivate that refinement of feeling, mind, and 
manners, which gives a zest to social inter- 
course. Mrs. Grant possessed great decision 
of character. This quality is rare in woman ; 
whether in consequence of her more delicate 
organization, or the dependent situation in 
which nature and education have placed her, 
is of no consequence to inquire. While she 
has judicious friends and kind protectors, she 
can very well dispense with that kind of ener- 
getic decision displayed by men, which seems 
to be attained only by deep reflection, when the 
mind has been tasked to judge of the fitness of 
a proposition with reference to its ultimate im- 
portance alone, and when that is clear, feels 
prepared to encounter every obstacle the world 
can raise to its accomplishment. Such deci- 
sion only becomes necessary to woman in ad- 
versity. Let no one imagine its exertion con- 
tributes to the happiness of a female. It mav 
be her duty , it should never be her desire. 

There is no human mind exempt from weak- 
nesses. Mrs. Grant had hers, and the most 
prominent one was the fondness with which 


ANN ELLSWORTH. 


91 


she doted on her children, especially her son. 
Her neighbours declared she was never heard 
to converse five minutes without mentioning 
Charles. She certainly contrived very soon 
to introduce his name to Ann Ellsworth ; and 
tell of his genius, and discretion, and kind heart; 
’ always adding, that under Heaven, he was all 
her dependence. £ The girls,’ she would say, 
£ are good, and industrious, and obedient ; but 
what can girls do ? Charles takes thought for 
us all. He assists me, and advises them, and 
provides for himself ; and it is all owing to him, 
that his sisters are so well educated. He gave 
them all their books, and taught them when he 
was here, and writes to them now he is away, 
and never seems weary of the task. He gave 
me, too, my large Bible, because my eyes had 
grown weak, and I never open it without thank- 
ing Heaven for having blessed me with such a 
son. I want, Miss Ellsworth, you should see 
him. He is not handsome, to be sure, noth- 
ing so handsome as Obed Williams, but when 
you are once acquainted with him, you will not 
notice his plainness. I do wish he would come 
home while you are here.’ 

Ann cordially joined in the wish ; the letters 
he sent his sisters were often shown her, and 
combined, with what she otherwise heard, to 
give her a high opinion of his talents and 
character. Her situation in her uncle’s family 
had grown almost intolerable. She was so 
wearied with their eternally reiterated com- 
plaints of bad health, and bad weather, bad 
crops, and bad markets, which constituted the 


92 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


chief topics of their discourse, when together ; 
when separated, they were usually complain- 
ing of each other. Obed thought his parents 
cross and stingy — they called him idle and ex- 
travagant, — and poor Ann had to hear it all. 
One beautiful forenoon, in the month of Au- 
gust, Ann called at Mrs. Grant’s, as usual, to 
pass an hour, but found them all engaged in 
preparation, as if for some expected guest. 
The floor of their little parlour was newly 
sanded, the fire-place filled with fresh green 
boughs, and the few flowers their garden at 
that late season afforded, were gathered and 
placed in glass tumblers, disposed on the man- 
tel-piece. 

‘We have just received a letter from 
Charles,’ said Mrs. Grant, her face radiant 
with smiles, ‘ and we expect him every mo- 
ment. I can truly say I am glad, and I hope 
I am grateful. We did not expect him this 
month, — and he is coming now. But do, my 
dear Miss Ellsworth, sit down ; the girls will 
hardly be at leisure to walk with you at pre- 
sent,— but if you will stay till Charles comes, 
I presume he will be happy to take a ramble, — 
and you can all go together.’ 

Ann excused herself from staying, by plead- 
ing engagements at home ; and as she slowly 
and solitarily pursued the path to her uncle’s, 
she reflected much on the insufficiency of 
wealth to confer happiness on a family, whose 
members are neither united by the confidence 
of affection towards each other, nor by grati- 
tude and love to the Giver of every good. 


ANN ELLSWORTH. 


93 


Charles Grant arrived, and in due time was 
introduced to Ann ; and the fair reader un- 
doubtedly expects to hear of their mutual and 
immediate prepossession in each other’s favor. 
Charles Grant, however, was not a man with 
whom a woman would be very likely to fall in 
love with at first sight. He was plain, almost 
to ugliness, small and thin, with harsh fea- 
tures, and sallow complexion, and gray eyes, 
— and the only redeeming point in his appear- 
ance, was a finely formed forehead, around 
which his dark hair gracefully clustered. But 
he was so intelligent and agreeable, and af- 
fectionate to his mother and sisters, and so 
gentlemanly, Ann could not help esteeming 
his character, and delighting in his society. 
Three weeks he allowed for his visit, and said, 
during that time, he should trace all the haunts 
of his childhood ; and he usually persuaded 
his sisters and Ann to accompany him in his 
rambles and excursions. Obed Williams, al- 
so, dressed in his ‘ very best,’ always was 
there, for jealousy of the superior abilities of 
Charles, and fears that he would gain the 
favor of Ann, had operated to make Obed fancy 
himself violently in love with his cousin ; and 
he studiously endeavoured to display advanta- 
geously before her, what he considered of vast 
importance, his fine person. He had better 
have staid at home. Ann did often see 
Charles and Obed beside each other, but it 
was when the one was all animation, — his 
plain features glowing with intelligence, and 
his gray eye sparkling with the wit and vivac- 


94 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


ity that flowed so enchantingly from his lips — 
while the other stood in stupid or wondering 
silence, — his handsome features dull and un- 
varying as a barber’s block. 

It was then that the heart of Ann confessed 
the truth of the poet’s assertion, that 

‘ Mind , mind alone, (bear witness earth and heaven,) 

The living fountain in itself contains 
Of beauteous and sublime ’ 


and though she did not look and love, she lis- 
tened with such undisguised pleasure, for her 
mind was all artlessness, that before the 4 three 
little weeks’ were expired, Charles had dared 
to whisper his admiration, and had not been for- 
bidden to hope. Obed, at the discovery of his 
cousin’s partiality for his rival, was filled with 
rage and envy. He declared Charles was 
wholly influenced by pecuniary motives, and 
that Ann, like all young ladies, who fancy them- 
selves educated, despised the laboring class, 
and thought a professional man only worthy her 
smiles. This is an observation often urged by 
farmers. The fault is all their own. No class 
of men in our own country, are so independent 
as the agriculturists, and none would be more 
respected, did they only cultivate their minds as 
assiduously as their acres. They plead want of 
leisure ; ; — let them improve what they have — 
the stormy days — the long winter evenings — 
opportunities are not wanting — books are with- 
in their reach — the road to honor and high 
station is open before them, and yet they sit 
down, not contentedly to be sure, for the soul 


ANN ELLSWORTH. 


95 


of an American cannot rest contented in igno- 
rance and obscurity, while light, and knowl- 
edge, and energy, and enterprise are with the 
spirit ofliberty, abroad in the world ; but they 
sit down in envious repinings, at the fate which 
has assigned them the task of tilling the earth, 
when they should be exerting themselves to 
obtain that knowledge which will confer honor 
and dignity on their employment. 

Ann Ellsworth did not despise Obed because 
he was a farmer, but because he was idle and 
illiterate. Neither was the choice of Charles 
Grant influenced by pecuniary motives ; yet 
had Ann, with her tastes and education, been 
poor, he would hardly have dared to whisper 
his love, till he had acquired the means of 
supporting her in the style which she would 
probably have expected from a husband in his 
station. But all such objections were now 
obviated by the fortune she would inherit ; and 
while he felt, that had he possessed a prince- 
dom, Ann would still be the object of his af- 
fection, in preference to any woman he had 
ever seen, he did not hesitate to avow his par- 
tiality because the world might say he was 
mercenary. 

Mr. Williams listened to the application of 
Charles, for consent to marry his niece, with 
an air in which anger and exultation were 
strangely blended. ‘ You are doubtless think 
ing that Ann has a fortune at her command, 
said he, with a sneer. 

c I have not asked your consent for her for 
tune, but for her,’ dryly observed Charles. 


96 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


£ My consent is indeed of some consequence 
in this matter,’ returned Mr. Williams, with 
affected solemnity : £ But I have my duty to per- 
form. Read that paper, Mr. Grant.’ 

It was the £ last will and testament’ of Mrs. 
Ellsworth ; and Charles there learned that the 
consent of Mr. Williams to the marriage of 
Ann was necessary, otherwise her fortune was 
forfeited to her uncle. 

£ And read this ’ ere paper, too, Mr. Grant,’ 
continued Mr. Williams. 

It was a paper expressing the wishes of Mrs. 
Ellsworth that her daughter should marry Obed 
Williams. 

£ ,You see how I am situated,’ resumed 
the crafty old man. £ My sister, knowing her 
daughter was gay and giddy, and that her for- 
tune would attract the young sparks, who are 
watching to obtain a rich wife, insisted that I 
should take the girl and her property as my 
own, and when she was old enough to marry, 
give her to my son. My conscience will not 
permit me to violate the trust.’ 

£ Is the young lady apprized of this ?’ inquir- 
ed Charles. 

£ 0, no — I hoped she would become attach- 
ed to Obed, and I think she will now, if no 
other person attempts to engage her affections. 
I have told you all, sir, because I believe you 
are a reasonable young man, and will not 
think it worth while to deprive the girl of her 
fortune, just for a little foolish fancy. You 
see, under all circumstances, I cannot give 
you my consent.’ 


ANN ELLSWORTH. ( 97 

{ Have you any objection to my character 
or situation ?’ 

1 0, no — but I am determined she shall mar- 
ry Obed, and I do not think it my duty to give 
you my consent.’ 

f And what if Miss Ellsworth should marry 
me without it ?’ 

4 Then her property shall be my son’s. It 
was the dying request of my sister. The es- 
tate was left her by my father, and she said it 
should never go out of the family. My duty, 
in such a case, is plain, sir.’ 

4 You may look over the will as much as 
you please,’ resumed Mr. Williams, sarcasti- 
cally. 4 You’ll find no flaws, by which you 
can get the property, after you marry Ann, I 
promise you. That ’ere will was drawn by as 
cunning a lawyer as you are, sir.’ 

Charles did examine it, coolly and minutely, 
till satisfied there were no flaws; he laid it 
down, saying, 4 It is not merely on account of 
the property that I display this interest. I 
consider my happiness and that of Miss Ells- 
worth involved. And though I will not believe 
she can ever prefer your son, notwithstanding 
he is heir to your estate, and has the rever- 
sion of hers in his grasp ; yet I own the possi- 
bility that she may think our mutual poverty 
should, for the present, prevent her from giv- 
ing me the right to protect her, troubles me.’ 

4 Do you then intend to marry her without 
my consent ?’ 

4 If I can obtain hers, I shall not hesitate on 
account of the forfeiture.’ 

9 


98 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


4 You can do as you please, but I raly thought 
you had more sense,’ said Williams, tauntingly. 

1 And as little feeling and honor as — but good 
morning, sir and slightly bowing, Charles de- 
parted in search of his beloved. The conversa- 
tion of the lovers cannot be given at length, but 
the conclusion was that Ann, either convinced 
by the arguments or melted by the entreaties of 
Charles, consented to wed him immediately. 

‘ I would not urge you thus hastily to unite 
your fate with mine,’ said Charles, 4 while I am 
poor, and incapable of supporting you as I 
could wish, had you any relative, except this 
avaricious uncle, with whom to reside. It is 
evident that he covets you*r estate. We will 
let him enjoy it undisturbed. You would not 
surely preserve it by marrying Obed ? ’ 

4 I cannot believe my dear mother, were she 
living, would consent I should marry him,’ said 
Ann, weeping — 4 0 why did she sign that cru- 
el paper ?’ 

4 Probably when her mind was weakened by 
sickness,’ replied Charles. 4 1 am convinced 
your uncle used artifice to obtain it. But we 
will leave him to Heaven and his own con- 
science, and think no more of the matter. If 
we cannot be rich, my love, we will be happy.’ 

Ann was a gay girl, and fond of society, but 
she had good sense. She knew she had mar- 
ried a jfoor man, and though she was a little 
romantic, she did not allow herself to expect to 
find in a cottage the luxuries of a palace, or 
that her husband, from only the income of his 
profession, could furnish for her the elegances 


ANN ELLSWQItTH. 


99 


the rich are at liberty to enjoy. She did not, 
therefore, anticipate the delight of residing in 
a fine house, and the parade of a wedding par- 
ty, and morning calls, and evening entertain- 
ments — but was contented to occupy a plain 
apartment, plainly furnished, and pass the bri- 
dal year busily employed with her needle, or 
her books. It is true, she did, at times, during 
the long days, feel a little moped — but when 
the evening came, and freed Charles from his 
office, how joyfully she greeted his step, and 
exerted herself to soothe all his cares; and how 
delightedly she listened to his instructions and 
advice, while in unreserved confidence she told 
him all she had read, and all she had thought. 
Milton’s heroine preferred to listen to the 
truths of philosophy from her husband’s lip, 
rather than the angel’s. 

Charles, meanwhile, applied himself with 
all the energy inspired by love and ambition, 
to the prosecution of his business, and thought 
every toil and perplexity repaid by the sweet 
smiles that always awaited him by his own fire- 
side. Thirty years have passed away since 
they were married. Thirty years make little 
alteration in the appearance of nature. It is 
on man and his works that the characters of 
time are impressed. And probably in no part 
of the world are changes so apparent as in our 
beloved country. The spirit of restlessness as 
well as improvement, pervades our citizens. 
This would naturally be the case with men, 
when an extensive country is open before them, 
and all are at liberty to remove withersoever 


100 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


they please. The spirit of emigration is pro- 
ductive of many good effects, and some melan- 
choly ones. There is a feeling of sadness in 
the parent’s heart while reflecting that the 
household band, so fondly reared together, will 
probably, in a few years, be so far, and so 
widely severed. Let no man, while planning 
his lofty dwelling, flatter himself he is building 
for his own posterity — the son of his enemy 
may inhabit there. 

The parents of Obed Williams fondly imagin- 
ed the estate they had so eagerly toiled to gain 
and improve, would be highly valued by their 
son — but they had the grief and mortification 
of seeing the part assigned him, on his mar- 
riage, soon disposed of ; and the chagrin and 
sorrow they endured in consequence of his un- 
dutiful and prodigal conduct, it was thought 
hastened their death. Obed, then, for a few 
years, revelled in luxury; but finally, increas- 
ing debts began to harass him, and as the small 
estimation in which he knew he had been held, 
notwithstanding he was heir to the best estate 
in the country, had always provoked him, he 
disposed of his property, at a reduced price, 
and departed for Ohio, — where he flattered 
himself he should be considered a great man. 
But the people in the western states have long 
since learned to distinguish between the igno- 
rant adventurer who has nothing but his own 
egotism to recommend him, and the man of en- 
terprise and intelligence seeking a wider sphere 
for the exertion of his talents — and Obed Wil- 
liams gained nothing by the removal. 


ANN ELLSWORTH. 101 

There is one event happeneth to all, and the 
changes of time are alike on the evil and the 
good. Thirty years have blanched the dark 
locks of Charles, and planted wrinkles on the 
fair face of Ann. The vivacity of youth and 
the glow of beauty must decay, even the ar- 
dor of imagination is chilled, and the light of 
the understanding darkened by the cold pall 
of years. There is but one earthly flower that 
blooms unfading in our earthly path — it is the 
true love of virtuous hearts. The lapse of 
thirty years has wrought no change on the 
affection of Charles and Ann. She listens as 
delightedly to his conversation as when his 
eloquence first won her smile ; and that smile 
is just as dear to him as when he first called 
her his bride. But their situation is changed. 
Thirty years of industry and economy have 
given them an independent fortune, and what 
is far better than gold, a name and a praise 
for every excellence that dignifies human na- 
ture. Satisfied with their portion of the world, 
they wished to retire from its bustle, and 
Charles Grant has lately purchased the farm 
formerly owned by Mr. Williams. It was en- 
deared to him by many recollections. Its 
shades had been the haunts of his boyhood — it 
was there he won the heart of his beloved wife, 
and above all, it was near the dwelling of his 
aged mother. So he purchased, and is im- 
proving the farm, and the passing traveller is 
not now mistaken when he deems the beautiful 
residence the abode of content and happiness. 

9* 


THE 


VILLAGE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 


« Life, like every other blessing, 

Derives its value from its use alone j 

Nor for itself, but for a nobler end 

The Eternal gave it — and that end is virtue. 

S. Johnson. 

The peculiar characteristics of females, be- 
ing less distinctly marked, are much more dif- 
ficult to be delineated than those of the other 
sex. There are various pursuits by which 
men may hope to obtain happiness and dis- 
tinction — for women there is but one path — 
her success in life depends entirely on her do- 
mestic establishment. Let the education of 
women difi'er ever so much in detail , its end 
is the same, to qualify them to become wives 
and mothers; and in every station the object 
of female ambition is to marry well. This 
similarity of purpose produces a similarity 
of thought, feeling, action, and consequently 
character , which no uniformity of training 
could otherwise bestow. And then, thq busi- 
ness of married women, though varying in 
ceremonials , according to the circumstances or 
rank of the respective husbands, is essentially 
alike. 


VILLAGE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 


103 


‘ To study household good, 

And good works in her husband to promote 

and to cherish and watch over her offspring, 
are, in our country, the employments for life 
of each individual. (I have not taken into this 
amount those modish ladies who appear to 
think themselves born only to be amused, be- 
cause such a class is scarcely recognised in 
our republican land — here happily, in public 
estimation, the useful yet takes precedence of 
the fashionable.) While such only are the of- 
fices and duties which women are expected to 
perform, it would be absurd to think they 
would exhibit that variety of talent, or those 
prominent and peculiar qualities of mind, that 
distinguish men of different professions and 
dissimilar occupations. What a contrast, in 
the principles and pursuits of men, since the 
time that Peter the Hermit first raised the 
standard of the cross, and saw nations enrol 
themselves beneath the sacred symbol, and this 
age of free inquiry, of rational improvement, 
of useful invention ! What sympathy would 
there be between the opinions and feelings of 
a crusader of the reign of Cceur de Lion, and 
an enlightened philosopher of our own nation ? 
— the one, in his mailed armour traversing the 
burning plains of Syria, considering the rescue 
of Jerusalem from the grasp of the infidels, as 
the greatest and most meritorious action mor- 
tal man could perform ; the other, contempla- 
ting, with a calm delight that scenes of car- 
nage never afforded, the proposed route of a 
rail road or canal, which, completed, would 


104 


AMERICAN SKETCHES 


give to peaceful industry, the means of raising 
cities on the site of the wilderness ? 

Yet woman is still the same — still seeking 
her earthly happiness only by subduing the 
heart of lordly man — still endeavouring to 
heighten and set off her personal attractions 
by dress and accomplishments, that she may 
thus secure the constant devotion of some gal- 
lant knight. 

This distinction in the pursuits of the two 
sexes could never have been so firmly estab- 
lished, and so long and uniformly upheld, in 
every country and among every people, by 
mere human authority and custom. In de- 
signating woman as ‘ a helpmate ’ for man, the 
Creator marked her destiny : and to fit her for 
the task, mercifully infused into her soul deep 
attachment for home, enduring tenderness for 
her offspring, and to the ‘ one she loves,’ that 
constancy in affection, which rarely decays 
till her heart is cold in death. She cannot 
break these bonds if she would. It is idle to 
talk of the 6 Rights of Woman,’ if they are 
made to consist but in placing her in a station 
manifestly contrary to the intentions of Provi- 
dence. It is worse than weak, it is wicked to 
say she is degraded by fulfilling those duties 
nature assigned her ; because the mind is not 
circumscribed by time , or confined to earili ; 
and in the promises of eternal glory, woman 
participates equally with her ‘lord.’ Indeed 
were not all boasting excluded she might 
claim the advantage — the Saviour of the world 
was peculiarly her seed, and the honor of hav- 


VILLAGE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 105 

ing the One who brought life and immortality 
to our fallen race named of her, establishes at 
once her claim to a full participation of mind, 
of soul, of that portion of our being which is 
destined for immortality. It is then absurd 
for woman to complain that her sphere on 
earth is less honorable than that of man, be- 
cause it is different; or imagine that the privi- 
lege of commanding armies or convincing 
senates would add to her importance, useful- 
ness and happiness — because it must be evi- 
dent to all who consider the subject, that such 
was not the part assigned her by Him who di- 
recteth all things in wisdom. The great ef- 
fort therefore of female education, should be 
to qualify woman to discharge her duties, not 
to exalt her till she despises them ; to make it 
her ambition to merit and display the charac- 
ter of the most amiable and intelligent of her 
sex, rather than aspire to emulate the capacity 
and conduct of men. In our country, where, 
under the mild light of Christianity, free insti- 
tutions guarantee freedom of thought, of ex- 
pression, of action, the full and free develope- 
ment of mind may rationally be expected ; and 
here, if in any country on earth, women may 
hope to take their true, their most dignified 
station, as the helpers, the companions, of ed- 
ucated and independent men. And while our 
citizens are endeavouring so to improve their 
inestimable privileges, that the men of future 
ages may be better and happier for their la- 
bors, have women no share in the important 
task ? Their influence on the manners is 


106 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


readily and willingly conceded by every one ; 
might not their influence on the mind be made 
quite as irresistible, and far more beneficial, 
and that, too, without violating in the least, 
the propriety , which, to make their examples 
valuable, should ever mark their conduct ? 
The business of instruction is one of vast inter- 
est, because fraught with such important con- 
sequences to Americans. It is necessary that 
all our people should be instructed, as univer- 
sal education is the main pillar that must 
eventually support the temple of our liberty. 
It is therefore a duty sacredly binding on our 
legislators to provide for the instruction, dur- 
ing childhood and youth, of every member of 
our republic. But while there are so many 
pursuits, more lucrative and agreeable to ac- 
tive and ambitious young men, there will be a 
lack of good instructers — of those who are wil- 
ling to make it their business. Let, then, the 
employment of school-keeping be principally 
appropriated to females. They are both by 
temper and habit, admirably qualified for the 
task — they have patience, fondness for child- 
ren, and are accustomed to seclusion and in- 
ured to self-government. Is it objected that 
they do not possess sufficient soundness of 
learning — that their acquirements are superfi- 
cial, showy, frivolous ? The fault is in their 
education, not in the female mind. Only af- 
ford them opportunities of improvement and 
motives for exertion ; let them be assured, that 

* to sing, to dance, 

To dress, and troll the tongue, and loll the eye,’ 


VILLAGE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 107 

is not all that is required to make young ladies 
agreeable or likely to be sought by the gentle- 
men — that they may converse sensibly without 
the charge of pedantry, and be intelligent 
without the appellation of a blue ; in short, that 
they are expected to be rational, and required 
to be useful, and they will not disappoint pub- 
lic expectation. 

But I may not dwell on the subject ; my pre- 
face is already too long. Readers soon tire of 
prefaces, and skip them, and so the labor of 
writing them is lost. Writers should never 
flatter themselves everything from their pens 
will be seized with avidity. Yet still it is, per- 
haps, best they should not know how slightly 
many passages, they imagine most excellent, 
are passed over ; how carelessly opinions and 
sentiments, they consider of vital importance 
to the interests and improvement of society, are 
read. They would not persevere could the 
mortifying truth be fully unfolded, namely, 
that the chief importance of an author is in 
his own estimation. Yet my preface will have 
all the importance I wish, if it has any tenden- 
cy to awaken the attention of parents, and those 
who have the superintendence of female edu- 
cation, to examine whether there be not some 
end and aim besides a mere drawing-room dis- 
play, to which the exertion of female talent 
may, with propriety, be directed. Yet to make 
such a plan effectual, it must be made fashion- 
able — the business of instruction must be di- 
vested of its associations of pretension and 
pedantry, and dulness and drilling. It must 


108 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


be esteemed amiable, and comporting with 
feminine gracefulness and delicacy as well as 
dignity ; and moreover, it must be sufficiently 
lucrative to insure an honorable independence. 
Whenever such a 1 consummation,’ which I, for 
one, most ‘devoutly wish,’ shall occur, the char- 
acter of the schoolmistress will become inter- 
esting and important ; the office of instructress 
will not be sought merely as the resource of 
necessity and misfortune ; but ladies will en- 
gage in it, more sedulous to display their ac- 
quirements and graces by the progress of their 
pupils, than an exhibition of themselves. And 
then the story of Elizabeth Brooks will be 
read with interest, and her example considered 
worthy of imitation. Elizabeth Brooks was a 
native of Walpole, N. H. Writers of fiction 
usually introduce the epithets 4 retired’ or ‘ ro- 
mantic’ before the name of the place where 
they locate the residence of their heroine. 
Such of my readers as have had the opportu- 
nity of visiting Walpole and its environs — who 
have gazed on the ‘ F alls,’ while standing be- 
neath the overhanging mountain, till fancy al- 
most saw the mighty mass trembling as if about 
to precipitate itself into the gulf beneath; while 
the agitation and whirl of the waters, as they 
rush, and boil, and foam, among the broken 
rocks, may, by no great effort of the imagina- 
tion, be ascribed to their fear of the impend- 
ing crush, and their hurry to escape from the 
threatened ruin — and then glanced on the op- 
posite shore, where, amidst plenty and beauty, 
rural content seems to have fixed her seat, 


VILLAGE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 


100 


will not need be told that Walpole and its en- 
virons are romantic. ‘ Retired’ is a more rela- 
tive term — to an inhabitant of Boston, the place 
would be retired. When Elizabeth was born, 
her father was an affluent merchant in the city 
of Hartford — when she was seventeen, he kept 
a small boarding house in Walpole, lord of noth- 
ing on earth, save the affection of his wife and 
child. Sickness, as well as misfortune, had 
assailed him ; he was dying of consumption, 
and before she was eighteen, she was fatherless. 
I n youth we seldom yield to despondency. Life 
has then so many bright visions, some must 
gild the path appointed us. It is not strange 
such fancies should soothe Elizabeth, for the 
star of love brightened her horizon. She wa£ 
very young, only fifteen, when her acquain- 
tance with William Forbes commenced. He 
was then preparing for college, and sought her 
society because she, more than any one, seem- 
ed to appreciate his studies. Yet it was more 
the complacency of her disposition, than liking 
for his person, that first induced Elizabeth to 
admit his visits. He was a scholar rather than 
a lover, and she had much oftener to listen to 
scraps of Latin and Greek quotations, than 
compliments or soft words. But then he fur- 
nished her with books, of which she was im- 
moderately fond, and he discussed with her the 
merits of her favorite heroes, and the beauties 
of her favorite poets ; and translated learned 
mottoes, and explained obscure allusions, till 
finally, from finding his presence necessary, 
she began to regret his absence ; his idea was 
10 


110 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


often and oftener recurring ; she thought of 
him, and loved to think of him — was she not 
then in love ? Hers was not certainly roman- 
tic love — such as is enkindled by a bright eye, 
graceful form, fascinating manners, &c. It 
was the calm, confiding esteem and affection, 
that will last unimpaired through all the chan- 
ges of human life. Wedded love must be thus 
rational, thus founded on esteem, or it will 
never endure. The raptures of fancy will de- 
cay, if not with the first moon, with the first 
year. 

It is usually thought those who are beloved, 
must be lovely — but the comeliness of Eliza- 
beth was almost entirely owing to a fair com- 
plexion, and a kind, benignant expression of 
countenance, that assured the beholder of the 
gentleness of her heart. She was one of those 
girls whom the aged always praise — a sure 
sign of excellence — and if some of the young 
ladies thought her rather too fortunate in at- 
taching a scholar and a rich man’s son, yet no 
envy or illnature towards her was openly ex- 
pressed. She was twenty-two, when William, 
after receiving his diploma, departed for the 
State of New-York, where he intended to study 
law, select a place of residence, and then re- 
turn and claim his bride. The time of separa- 
tion appeared long to them both. William 
openly mui mured, and tears told all that Eliza- 
beth could not speak. 

1 Let me find you unchanged at my return,’ 
said William, pressing her hand. 

‘ Time changes us all,’ replied Elizabeth 


VILLAGE SCHOOLMISTRESS. Ill 

i But your heart, my love, let that still be 
mine, and I care not for other alterations.’ 

He was then probably sincere. 

‘ Do you think the report of your nephew’s 
intended marriage with a lady in New-York js 
really true ?’ said Miss Ashton to the Rev. J. 
Bennett, the uncle of William Forbes. i Has 
he entirely forsaken Elizabeth ?’ 

‘ I fear so, indeed,’ replied the worthy 
clergyman, with a shake of the head, and a 
deep, long breath, between a sigh and groan. 
‘ Elizabeth is one of the best girls in the world, 
but their courtship has been too long. I dis- 
like such long courtships — I seldom knew one 
end happily. There is usually jealousy and 
quarrelling — and if they do finally marry, it 
often appears on the part of the man, more a 
sense of honor than affection, which leads him 
to fulfil his engagement.’ 

i Would there not be equal danger of repen- 
tance and repining, were the nuptial knot actu- 
ally tied ?’ inquired Miss Ashton. 

‘ No, there would not — or certainly not with 
persons of sense and reflection. They would 
then feel their interests the same, and they 
would feel that confidence in each other, which 
love only never imparted. Even the changes 
that time works on the fairest countenance, are 
scarcely perceptible to the husband who daily 
sees his wife exerting herself to make him and 
his children happy. But the lover, after an ab- 
sence of several years, beholds the alterations 
in his intended with deep regret, if not with 
mortification. And the more ardent and de- 


112 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


voted he has been, the more perceptible is the 
change. His imagination has been investing 
his beloved with an increase of charms, while 
time has been stealing f a tooth, or auburn lock,’ 
perhaps, and the bridegroom feels as if de- 
frauded of the loveliness for which he had bar- 
tered his heart.’ 

i But you forget, sir,’ said Miss Ashton, 
eagerly, ‘ that the gentlemen now allow us 
some merit on the score of mind , and Miss 
Brooks’ 

‘ Is wonderfully improved, I grant ye,’ in- 
terrupted Mr. Bennett — ‘ and she is far more 
deserving than when William first engaged her 
hand ; because she has evinced the goodness 
of her heart and temper by good works, by use- 
fulness — that sure, and indeed to us, only test 
of superior virtue, and the best criterion of su- 
perior abilities. But yet, Miss Ashton, we must 
not expect, though the opinions of men and the 
condition of women have wonderfully, and hap- 
pily changed, during the last half century, yet 
we must not expect that the fancy for female 
beauty, which is fostered, if not in a great mea- 
sure inspired, by our literature, (recollect eve- 
ry heroine, from Helen downwards, is painted 
beautiful,) can be sufficiently etherealized , as 
my Sophia would say, to prefer, without at least 
an effort of reasoning, the graces of mind to the 
graces of person. I know from my own feel- 
ings, as well as from observation, that men are 
extremely apt to pay homage to beauty. It is 
true, young men of sense and education soon 
grow weary of a fool, though ever so pretty, 


VILLAGE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 


113 


but not always till after marriage ; — when it is 
too late. Such will probably be the fate of 
William Forbes — but his folly and injustice de- 
serve punishment.’ 

4 And so Miss Brooks must all her life be 
confined to the drudgery of school keeping,’ — 
said Miss Ashton, compassionately. ‘I do 
think keeping school must be the dullest thing 
on earth. To be mewed up, day after day, 

conning A. B. C. 0, how I should detest 

it ! But it may be congenial employment to 
the mind of an old maid.’ 

4 1 am intending my daughter Sophia to 
commence the business soon,’ observed Mr. 
Bennett. 

‘ What, that joyous girl, who is all song, 
smiles and sportiveness ? Why, to confine 
her buoyant spirit in the prison of a school 
room, would be as incongruous as for nature 
to place nightingales in Lapland, or call forth 
butterflies in January. She never will endure 
it.’ 

4 She is eager to attempt it,’ replied Mr. 
Bennett, — 4 and anticipates much pleasure in 
the employment of school keeping.’ 

4 Pleasure in school keeping !’ — reiterated 
the laughing Miss Ashton. 4 Whoever thought 
of associating pleasure with school keeping ! — 
I know indeed ladies sometimes engage in it, 
but I always supposed it was from necessity, 
for the pecuniary compensation merely, — but 
that cannot be your daughter’s motive.’ 

4 Neither is it now the motive of Elizabeth 
Brooks. When she commenced instructing, 
10 * 


114 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


the necessities of her mother required great 
exertion. But Mrs. Brooks is no more. Eliz- 
abeth has rich relations in Connecticut, who 
would gladly support her, and indeed, who 
urge her to reside with them. She does not 
instruct from necessity.’ 

c It is very strange she should instruct from 
choice,’ observed the young lady. 

6 And why so strange ?’ returned Mr. Ben- 
nett. 4 Do you, my dear Miss Ashton, never 
connect pleasure with usefulness ? I should 
have said duty, but the word has been so often 
and so foolishly, if not irreverently misapplied 
I seldom use it. In my estimation, and I have 
drawn my deductions, not from studies in the 
closet, but observations in the world, useful- 
ness and pleasure are much oftener allied than 
idleness and pleasure. By idleness I do not 
mean doing nothing, — but being engaged in 
frivolous pursuits only. There is a compla- 
cency of mind that makes the heart glad and 
the spirit buoyant — a feeling of gratification 
which is happy without effort, and gay even 
in solitude, that people who seek only their 
own amusement never enjoy.’ 

‘ 1 am not sufficiently acquainted with Miss 
Brooks to allow me to judge of her feelings,’ 
returned the lively Miss Ashton — ‘ but the 
loss of a lover is usually esteemed quite a seri- 
ous thing with us ladies. If she sustain her 
disappointment with fortitude, 1 shall think 
school keeping of some importance, and advise 
every young lady to acquaint herself with the 
business, so that an affair of the heart may not 


VILLAGE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 


115 


make her quite helpless and hopeless. But 
your charming Sophia has nothing to fear 
from fickle lovers.’ 

i She should fear then for herself,’ returned 
Mr. Bennett, seriously. ‘ She should fear to 
indulge that supineness which is passive vice, 
if I may be allowed the term — because to be 
actively useful, as far as our ability permits, 
is the law of our being, the debt we owe for 
the enjoyment of life, and whoever neglects to 
fulfil the one and pay the other is guilty The 
world may say such people live very fashion- 
ably, and very innocently — but they do not 
enjoy the approbation of conscience, and they 
cannot expect from Him whose favor is feli- 
city, the commendation 1 well done good and 
faithful servant !’ Yet I beg you will not think 
I have compelled my daughter to engage as 
an instructress. I have long since adopted 
the opinion that to have good works merito- 
rious, they must be performed by a free agent. 
I endeavour to point out to my children the 
path of usefulness — I advise them to pursye 
it ; but I allow them to decide for themselves. 
Sophia, however, for her decision of character 
and activity of mind, is far more indebted to 
the counsels and example of Miss Brooks than 
to me. And I am proud and glad to acknowl- 
edge this, because it is paying a deserved tri- 
bute to merit, and moreover assists to establish 
my favorite theory — namely, that the eleva- 
tion of female character must be achieved by 
female talent and influence. We men may 
frame systems of improvement, but it is the 


116 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


exertions of the ladies that must prepare the 
mind to receive them.’ 

Here they were interrupted by the entrance 
of Sophia Bennett, who came tripping in to tell 
her father she had received the promised com- 
munication from Miss Brooks. 4 And I was 
never more delighted in my life,’ continued the 
laughing girl. 4 Do, my dear father, read it — 
I am sure there is amusement in the descrip- 
tion of school keeping, however dull the busi- 
ness may be in actual performance.’ 

4 Miss Brooks was requested by my daugh- 
ter to draw up some rules for her direction dur- 
ing her first essay as an instructress,’ said Mr. 
Bennett, turning to Miss Ashton. 4 Miss Brooks 
answered that she would willingly oblige her, 
but that precise rules, applicable to the exigen- 
cies of different schools, would be beyond her 
ability — but that she would copy some notes, 
taken during her first six months’ experience in 
teaching, which might give my daughter some 
little idea of what would be expected from her 
in her new vocation.’ 

4 O, do pray allow me to hear the notes,’ said 
Miss Ashton. 

4 With pleasure,’ returned Mr. Bennett. 
4 Here Sophia, you must read, I will explain, 
and Miss Ashton may criticise ; so there will 
be business for us all.’ 

4 1 would ask to be excused from my task,’ 
said Miss Ashton, 4 only as I find you place so 
high an estimate on industry, you will I suppose 
easier pardon severity of remark than idle- 
ness.’ 


VILLAGE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 


117 


i But you must recollect the writer is a female,’ 
replied the good man — ‘ and from the lips of her 
own sex, should receive courtesy if not indul- 
gence. There is one consequence which I 
sometimes fear may follow the cultivation of 
literature, especially of authorship among wo- 
men, which would tend greatly to injure their 
usefulness and happiness. It would be very 
unfortunate, should those whose thoughts and 
words ought to be kind, conciliating and 
charitable, be, by their attainments incited to 
a spirit of jealousy, envy and rivalry towards 
each other. Indeed that lady of intelligence 
who does not encourage female talent, must be 
blind to her own interest. It is not in possess- 
ing a genius superior to her sex, that makes the 
true, the best glory of a woman, it is in using 
her influence to elevate the female character. 
We men do not want paragons or prodigies foi 
wives — but rational, refined, intelligent part- 
ners — the former may engage our wonder, the 
latter only will attract our love. And now, my 
daughter, as I have prosed to the extent good 
breeding will allow, although I have not half 
exhausted the subject, we will listen to the let- 
ter of Miss Brooks.’ 

Sophia’s smile thanked her kind parent for 
the interest he took in her plans and pleasures, 
and she began. 

‘ On examining my notes, my dear Miss Ben- 
nett, I found they would be unintelligible to 
you without some explanations ; so by their aid 
I have taxed my memory to give you a regular 
history of my feelings, and the progress of my 


118 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


mind during six of the most important months 
I ever passed. I may well call them so, as 
their effect has ever since, operated on my 
character and happiness ; and probably will, 
during life. It was on the first Monday in May, 
18 — , that I commenced my school, in a small 

district in the town of . I engaged in 

it from necessity, and reluctantly enough to 
make me quite nervous. I used to be ner- 
vous in those days, or at least indulge my sen- 
sibility, (the refined title for selfishness ,) till it 
made me very unreasonable, and very wretch- 
ed ; for I hud been indulged till the gratification 
of my own wishes and whims, appeared to me 
the most important thing on earth. But wealth 
had fled, my dear father was no more, my mo- 
ther was unable to provide for her own wants, 
and thus I was thrown upon my own resources. 

I had never been acquainted with myself, 
and notwithstanding I had a proud idea of my 
own learning and accomplishments, yet no 
sooner did I undertake to exercise, specifically, 
my talents, than I shrunk from the task, and felt 
dismay and discouragement. Those who have 
been taught to estimate their acquirements 
chiefly by the credit they acquire on days of 
examination at school, and afternoons of dis- 
play before partial friends at home, have little 
idea of any practically useful purpose to which 
those accomplishments may be applied. But 
for me, there was no discharge. I must either 
use exertion, or live in dependence on my 
mother’s relatives. I was influenced in my 
choice by reasons that doubtless to a philos- 


VILLAGE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 


119 


opher, would appear of very trifling import, 
if not excessively silly ; yet they decided my 
destiny. I will tell you the whole frankly, nor 
do I now, in my days of reflection, and com- 
parative wisdom, feel disposed to tax myself 
with egregious folly, because that in youth f 
was guided by the impulses of my heart. The 
passions, when virtuous in their objects of pur- 
suit, are as sure a guide to excellence and 
happiness, as cool reason — indeed surer, and 
far more efficient ; because of the enthusiasm 
they kindle, and the generosity they inspire. 
It is a mistake to think that passion, or feeling, 
is of itself censurable. When the soul is 
most innocent, that is in youth, the passions 
are most ardent. Why then, you will proba- 
bly inquire, is the suppression of passion al- 
ways so earnestly urged on the young ? 1 

think, my dear Sophia, there is a mistake in 
the terms used by those writers who most earn- 
estly inculcate the necessity of self control. 
It is not the suppression of our feelings, but 
their right direction that is needed to make us 
perfect. The great Moralist, who i spake as 
never man spake,’ did not censure passion, or 
its expression — he only sought to direct it to 
worthy objects, and incite it to great sacrifices. 
He purified and exalted but he encouraged — 
love. We are not only to love our neighbour 
as ourselves, but we must love our enemies — a 
refinement, and generosity, and warmth of sen- 
timent which can only be compatible with a 
pure mind and ardent heart. These remarks 
are not intended to palliate any weakness of 


120 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


my own — because I do not think the affection 
I then cherished for W., was a weakness- Yet 
what was, at that time, the innocency of 
passion, would, if now indulged, be weak 
or criminal. But my reasons — well — New 
Hampshire was the residence of the friends of 
William — I should there, oftener than in Con- 
necticut, hear of him and from him ; and then 
William had once said he thought the office of 
instructress, an excellent one for young la- 
dies ; it imparted a knowledge of the human 
heart, he observed, which, in no other way 
could they so well or so safely gain ; and it 
also gave dignity to the manners, and a deci- 
sion to the mind that were calculated to make 
a woman more respected and more useful. 
Another, and perhaps the most efficient reason 
was this — I had a cousin where I was invited 
to reside who had expressed more partiality 
for me than his relationship would seem to dic- 
tate — I feared a residence in his father’s fam- 
ily would give uneasiness to William Forbes. 
I might, I see, have spared this detail of cir- 
cumstances, and said at once, that partiality 
for the man I then expected to marry, was the 
true reason which induced me to make those 
exertions which have been crowned with suc- 
cess, and I hope not deficient in that useful- 
ness which merits success. I have not men- 
tioned my mother, because she would, with 
apparent cheerfulness, have yielded to the 
solicitations of her friends and lived in depen- 
dence on them ; yet 1 know she was after- 
wards far happier, in reflecting she owed her 


VILLAGE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 121 

support and comforts to my filial love and suc- 
cessful industry. 

My schoolhouse had been recently built, 
and was scarcely finished, and moreover was 
situated in a place which any young lady, ro- 
mantic or rational, might be pardoned for cal- 
ling horrid. In selecting this site, taste, if 
such a principle was cultivated among the vil- 
lagers, had never been consulted. The only 
requisite was, to fix precisely on the centre of 
the district ; and after measuring in every di- 
rection, the centre had been discpvered exact- 
ly in the centre of a frog-pond. As near that 
pond as safety would permit, stood the school- 
house, encircled with dwarf pines and spruce 
bushes ; and the prospect on every side, bound- 
ed by woods or mountains, or ledges of rock. 
Not a human habitation was in sight, and yet, 
when I entered the school room, I found near- 
ly fifty children collected. Where the little 
urchins could possibly live, or how they all 
found their way to that wild looking place, was 
then to me matter of astonishment. I have 
since learned, how highly the privileges of a 
free school are prized ; and what exertions are 
made by parents, to insure their little ones the 
advantages of education. The first thing, of 
course, was, to be introduced to my pupils, or 
in other words, to learn their names. And 
here commenced a ludicrous difficulty. The 
names of these little rustics were so high 
sounding and romantic, and generally so inap- 
propriate to the appearance of the children, 
and their repetition awakened such associa- 
11 


122 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


tions, and indeed such ludicrous comparisons 
in my own mind, that it was several days be- 
fore I could hear, or speak them without 
laughing. I had all the presidents and great 
men of America, to say nothing of foreign 
heroes, before me, represented, in name 
at least, by sunburnt, barefooted, curly-pated 
boys ; and all the heroines of romance and 
song, in chubby cheeked, freckled, romping 
girls — and a happy circumstance did I esteem 
it, if only one four-syllable name was attached 
to one individual. Ever since that time, I 
have been an admirer of short, and as they 
are usually called, simple, oldfashioned names. 
But I was, on the whole, pleased with my 
school. There was something very gratifying 
in the sincere and affectionate homage these 
happy and innocent little creatures rendered 
to me. They had been taught to respect their 
teacher, and think learning one of the finest 
things they could possess ; and I found them 
tractable, and ambitious to excel. But the 
unrestrained freedom of play when out of 
school, and the variety and cheerfulness of 
nature abroad, make confinement to the school 
room, especially in the country, a far more 
irksome restraint during summer, than any 
other season of the year. I studied so to en- 
gross and interest their minds, that they might 
have no leisure for repining at the restrictions 
I was compelled to impose, and I introduced 
in consequence, some new arrangements ; but 
I found these innovations where watched with 
a jealous eye by the parents. Yet no mur- 


VILLAGE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 


123 


murs of discontent reached me, excepting from 
two families — one sent no scholar, and the 
other none excepting an idiot. I have usually 
found those who have least interest in a school 
the least likely to be satisfied with its manage- 
ment. I boarded round , as they termed it, that 
is, I boarded with every family in proportion to 
the number of scholars they sent — and it was 
amusing to see the pride of the parents and the 
manner in which they managed to elicit from 
me praises of their children. 1 believe I satis- 
fied them, certainly I was myself satisfied ; for 
nothing they could do to make me comfortable 
and happy, was omitted. The best room, the 
best bed, the best place at table, the best fare 
the house afforded were considered the right 
of the instructress of their children — and the 
gr ititude this treatment excited in my heart, 
poor and dependent as I felt myself, raised in 
me an ambition to deserve it, that doubtless 
contributed much to make me industrious, and 
to give me those habits of faithfulness in my 
employment, which have been rewarded by suc- 
cess and happiness. Yes, happiness, my dear 
Sophia ; — never allow your mind to cherish 
that idea that happiness is necessarily depen- 
dent on a particular event, or confined to any 
particular station. It is true I did not then 
expect, and probably should have been very 
wretched to have expected, school keeping 
would be my future business. I was young, 
I had a lover — I read romances — could I be 
otherwise than a little romantic ? I was very 
much so, and I confess, there where hours. 


124 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


nay days, when I felt discontented with my 
employment and situation. 1 looked on the 
woods and rocks, and above all on the frog- 
pond with disgust ; and anticipated the time 
when I should be at liberty to be happy. It 
seemed so unsentimental for me to be wasting 
my spirits and wearying myself to death, just 
to please a set of people whom, but for a pe- 
cuniary reward, I should never have known 
had existed. But these feelings seldom lasted 
long. My own heart told me 1 was acting 
rightly. The still small voice, whose whisper 
of approbation brings more 4 true joy ’ to the 
bosom than the greetings of the million, con- 
firmed me, encouraged me to persevere. And 
I was rewarded by the confidence and affec- 
tion of both parents and children. What a 
pleasure is derived from knowing one’s sell 
beloved ! When I saw those little girls and 
boys regarding me as their oracle, almost their 
tutelary angel, you can scarcely imagine how 
they interested me. Their chubby, sunburnt, 
freckled faces, looked positively beautiful ; and 
I dearly loved the roguish, romping, but good 
natured and happy creatures. I enjoyed ex- 
quisite gratification in communicating knowl- 
edge to their artless minds, and watching their 
progress. The process greatly improved my 
own understanding. While repeating and ex- 
plaining to them, I learned myself to reflect 
and reason ; and while advising and urging on 
them the necessity of improvement, I became 
more susceptible of the value of time, and 
more anxious to improve. We parted with 


VILLAGE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 


125 


mutual regret — even tears — and though my 
lot has ever since been to dwell in pleasanter 
places, and among more polished people, yet 
I never think of those children, I never meet 
them without gladness, they never see me 
without testifying joy. Would these mutual 
feelings always arise had we not enjoyed hap- 
piness, such as the consciousness of acting 
rightly and deserving it only imparts, while 
together ?’ 

4 What do you think of the life of a school- 
mistress ?’ said Mr. Bennett. 

4 1 am anxious to commence it,’ said Sophia. 

4 1 think it exquisite in description,’ said Miss 
Ashton, 4 especially for those ladies who have 
talents that they wish to employ and improve. 
But this you know sir, must not be expected 
from every young lady. Some there are of 
my acquaintance, who possess genius and im- 
agination, play and sing divinely, dance charm- 
ingly and dress elegantly, but the reasoning of 
Socrates would never convince them they could 
live contentedly, indeed live at all, in the vicin- 
ity of a frog-pond !’ , 

4 Ay, there’s the rub,’ said Mr. Bennett. Ac- 
cidental circumstances connected with an em- 
ployment, give us an aversion to it, before we 
have by experience ascertained how easy it is 
to surmount such difficulties, and how trifling 
they appear when once the mind is intent on 
what it considers important. It is this which 
makes it so necessary to obtain the sanction of 
fashion for whatever we wish to make popular, 
because then the attainment only is regarded — 
11 


126 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


not the labor or privations by which it is won. 
Do you not think, Miss Ashton, those young 
ladies you mention, while acquiring their 
knowledge of music, submitted to restraints as 
irksome as school keeping would impose ?’ 

4 Undoubtedly — but that was to acquire an 
indispensable accomplishment.’ 

4 Yes, according to the standard of fashion — 
hut I anticipate the time, when our ladies will 
not be prized solely for possessing accomplish- 
ments, but for improving them — when the 
waste and wild places of our country, will all 
be cultivated and beautified, by the industry 
and taste of the men, and the minds of our peo- 
ple refined, and intelligent, and liberal, by the 
united exertions of the pure, and pious, and 
enlightened of both sexes. In short, when it 
wiK become fashionable for young ladies to be 
usefully, rather than romantically active ; and 
then the sight of a frog-pond would no more 
deter them from engaging in a school, than 
would the joltings, privations, and fatigue they 
must endure, prevent them now from taking a 
trip to the White Hills, or a tour to Niagara.’ 

Ten years after Mr. Bennett had thus phi- 
losophized to these gay girls, they again met at 
his house. They were both happily married, 
both had children ; and Elizabeth Brooks, still 
following the vocation she had chosen, was the 
instructress they both preferred. She was al- 
most adored by her pupils, and respected and 
beloved like a relative by their parents ; and 
the placidity of her countenance, and cheerful- 
ness, even vivacity of her manners, was a proof 


VILLAGE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 127 

(hat her mind was contented, and her life pleas- 
ant as well as useful. She also was on a visit 
to the clergyman. 

1 1 have lately received a letter from my 
nephew, William Forbes,’ remarked Mr. Ben- 
nett. ‘ He is, I find, a widower.’ 

The married ladies glanced at Elizabeth, 
but her countenance was unchanged. 

1 He says he shall be here in the course of a 
few months, if he can learn whether a certain 
; lady who first engaged his affections is at liber- 
ty, and would receive him favorably,’ continu- 
ed the clergyman. 

The married ladies both smiled, and a slight 
color was perceptible on the mild, chastened 
features of Elizabeth. 

‘ He says,’ continued the clergyman, c he 
has fortune, fame, friends, all that is necessary 
to make him happy, except the consciousness 
of rectitude, which, since violating his engage- 
ment with Elizabeth, he has never enjoyed, — 
and a partner to share his confidence and pros- 
perity. He acknowledges his fault, but thinks 
he has already been sufficiently punished. 
The lady he married was beautiful, and he was 
dazzled by her charms, till he forgot, or rather 
relinquished his first love ; but his wife never 
made him happy. He does not accuse her of 
imperfections, only remarks that they were un- 
equally matched ; that there never was, that 
there could not be, between them that com- 
munion of mind, to which he had always been 
accustomed in his intercourse with Miss 
Brooks. He was not himself aware, how 


128 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


much of his happiness depended on this com- 
munion, till he had forfeited it. He entreats 
me to intercede for him.’ 

< What answer did Elizabeth give ?’ 

The subject was under discussion all the af- 
ternoon. The married ladies advised her to 
accept the offer of her penitent lover — they 
probably expected an invitation to the wedding. 
The good clergyman told her to consult her 
ow r n heart, and those excellent principles that 
had so nobly and effectually supported her 
under every vicissitude. But he hinted how 
much pleasure it would give him to see her 
married to a worthy man ; indeed, he said he 
should like to pronounce the nuptial benedic- 
tion himself. 

1 What answer did Elizabeth give ?’ 

I intend, hereafter, to sketch the character 
of William Forbes, and then the propriety of 
the answer which Elizabeth did give, will be 
apparent. Till then, every lady and gentle- 
man, who does me the honor to read these 
1 Sketches,’ is at liberty to form and express 
their own opinion on the subject. 


THE 


BELLE AND THE BLEU. 


The world is too much with us. 

Wordsworth. 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion, 

Round the wealthy bride; 

But when compared with real passion 
Poor is all that pride — 

What are their showy treasures ? 

What are their noisy pleasures ? 

The gay gaudy glare of vanity and art. — 

The polished jewel’s blaze 
May draw the wond’ring gaze, 

But never, never can come near the worthy heart. 

Burns. 


J. W. Thompson, Esq. was a very rich man, 
and a very melancholy man — one of those 
characters, who, seemingly blessed with all that 
earth can give, are yet always repining and find- 
ing fault with the wind, the weather, the season ; 
or else complaining of ill luck, or ill health — 
and always feeling an ill temper — but the world 
felt no sympathy for his sorrows. He had 
passed through life calculating how he might 
turn every incident that befell him to some 
pecuniary profit, and his acquaintances were 
now, in their turn, calculating how much he had 
gained, and how soon he would leave his wealth 
to his two daughters. Had he been a poor 
man and worked at day-labor to support his 


ISO 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


children, how much more his death would have 
been lamented ! For he died — the rich die as 
certainly, though not always as peacefully as 
the indigent. His neighbours would have said, 
‘ what will become of the poor girls now their 
kind father is gone, who worked so hard ever 
since his wife died, to provide for his darlings! 
He is dead, and well may they weep — they 
will never find such another tender friend. 5 
But when the rich J. W. Thompson, Esq. 
died, they said no such thing. 

* I do not think, Simon, the death of Squire 
Thompson any great loss to the world,’ said 
Mr. Jacob Towner, to his hired man, as he 
paused from his labor of mowing, and rested 
his scythe on the ground, while the funeral 
procession passed. ‘ But yet I fear the world 
is a great loss to him. When a man’s heart 
is wholly set upon the mammon of unrighteous- 
ness, he must feel very poor when forced away 
from his idol. But still, Simon, we will not 
judge him,’ continued he, raising his hand and 
waving it with an oratorical motion as nearly 
in imitation of his good clergyman as he possi- 
bly could ; 4 we must not judge him, Simon. 
Nevertheless I was thinking how foolish it is 
for us to be so anxious for riches, when God 
just as willingly receives a beggar as a prince 
and never shows any favor to a man because 
he has left a great estate behind him. Ah ! 
Simon, what are all the things of this world but 
vanity ? Hark ! is not that the sound of thun- 
der ? We must make haste, or we shall cer- 
tainly have our hay wet again, and then it will 


THE BELLE AND THE BLEU. 1 31 

be entirely spoiled. Go, run, and yoke up the 
team as quick as possible, I will rake the hay. 
How sorry I shall feel to have so much lost.’ 

‘ Ho you think the young ladies will have fif- 
ty thousand dollars apiece ?’ inquired Mrs. 
Patten of an elderly gentleman, who was re- 
ported to be a particular friend of the deceased 
Squire Thompson, and intimately acquainted 
with his affairs. 

‘ Indeed, madam,’ replied he, with a half 
smile that seemed checked by the necessity he 
felt of drawing a deep sigh while the coffin was 
lowered into the ground — ‘ Indeed, Madam, I 
can hardly say — or I ought not to say ; there 
are fortune hunters in our country as well as in 
other countries ; and it is rather dangerous foi 
young ladies to be reported rich. But this I 
can say, that the young ladies will have enough. 
Squire Thompson, though a very fretful man, 
was careful in business, and his affairs are all 
arranged. How much better it would be if 
men, when they know they must die, would all 
take care to have their papers put in order !’ 

‘ Then he did not expect to live,’ observed 
Mrs. Patten ; 6 Pray was he reconciled to 
death ?’ 

‘ 1 can’t say, Madam, as I never heard him 
speak particularly onthe subject. But then he 
was quite passed the enjoyments of this life, 
had no appetite nor relish for anything ; and in- 
deed he appeared so miserable that I could not 
say I was sorry to see him die.’ 

‘Did you observe the crape on the Miss 
Thompsons’ dresses ?’ inquired Miss Horten of 


132 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


her companion, as they walked home from the 
funeral. 4 How deep it was, and what rich look- 
ing bonnets they wore ! I think black is a very 
becoming dress when the materials are rich ; 
but poor, gray, dirty looking crape, is abomi- 
nable.’ 

4 They have a large fortune left them, and 
can dress just as rich as they please,’ observ- 
ed the other. 

4 And will probably marry just whom they 
choose,’ returned Miss Horton. 4 1 have heard 
already of three young gentlemen who are re- 
solving to address them.’ 

4 1 wish they knew it,’ said the other ; 4 1 wish 
they knew how much speculation there is about 
their wealth. I fear they will be deceived.’ 

4 They cannot imagine all the attention paid 
them is for their beauty,’ answered Miss Hor- 
ton. 4 Lucretia Thompson is absolutely ugly, 
and Eliza, though a little more passable, is a 
palefaced, baby-looking thing.’ 

4 But then, Miss Horton, only think of hav- 
ing fifty thousand dollars at command ! What 
need of personal charms, or mental accomplish- 
ments, with fifty thousand dollars ?’ 

4 And this is life’ — Squire Thompson was, 
with reason, disliked by his neighbours ; he 
was known to be unhappy — he was unlament- 
ed at his death ; and yet, because he left a 
large estate, hundreds of people flocked to his 
funeral, his two daughters were surrounded 
by friends offering every service, and, even in 
their mourning dresses, they were the objects 
of envy to their own sex, and of matrimonial 


THE BELLE AND THE BLEU. 


133 


speculation among the young gentlemen. 
‘And this is life.’ Strange that gold should 
have such sway over the minds of men, when 
they must see that its possession does not con- 
fer happiness here — much less prepare us for 
that change which so soon and certainly ar- 
rives to the rich as well as the poor. 

The daughters of the deceased, though dif- 
fering in disposition, were not, either of them, 
by nature endowed with anything more than 
that common kind of capacity which fitted them 
for an ordinary station ; but nevertheless, as 
heiresses, they were destined to figure in the 
beau-monde , and the ingenuity of their depen- 
dents and flatterers was soon taxed to discover 
in their minds the seeds of genius or fancy, tal- 
ents or taste being essentially requisite for 
those ladies who cannot lay claim to beauty. 

Lucretia Thompson (I name her first, not- 
withstanding she was the younger born, be- 
cause she assumed those superior airs which 
she considered necessary to exhibit superioi 
talents, and always would take precedence of 
her sister,) was a tall, dark-complexioned, bold- 
looking girl, with large features, and she would 
have had quite a sour expression of counte- 
nance, had not the consciousness that she had 
very handsome teeth caused her to wear an 
almost constant simper, which did not appear 
in perfect keeping with her quick eye and the 
frown that frequently passed over her brow 
when anything occurred that crossed her hu- 
mor. 

Eliza, though possessing a far better com- 
12 


1S4 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


plexion than her sister, could hardly be term- 
ed handsomer, for her hair was a dull yellow, 
and so coarse, stiff and wiry, that all attempts 
to reduce the refractory locks to an imitation of 
those sweet curls that always shade so grace- 
fully the fair brow of a heroine of romance, 
proved of little use in the toilet of the heiress 
of fifty thousand dollars. Then Eliza had a 
low, narrow forehead, turned up nose, and a 
very short face, giving her countenance an air 
of conceit and unintellectualness (the word, if 
not in the Dictionary, ought to be) that redeem- 
ed her from all suspicion of being born a bleu. 
Yet nature usually bestows on every form some 
grace, and to Eliza she had given a very lovely 
neck — white as a lily, and with that graceful 
curve that poets denominate ‘ swanlike.’ If 
the fine teeth of Lucretia induced her to talk 
and laugh unceasingly — the beautiful bosom of 
Eliza led her to study dress and attitude ; and 
thus one was soon termed a sentimental the other 
a literary lady. 

In one short year after the death of Squire 
Thompson, he seemed forgotten, or only re- 
membered as a man who had toiled to lay up a 
hoard of wealth which would be a fine acquisi- 
tion to the young gentlemen who could obtain 
the orphan heiresses. These ladies drew 
around them a crowd of company, because they 
really gave elegant entertainments ; and as 
the gentlemen who frequented the house paid 
them great attention, they were reported to 
have many admirers. Eliza Thompson’s ele- 
ganv dresses and romantic air were univer- 


THE BELLE AND THE BLEU. 135 

sally admired, while Lucretia’s sublimely silly 
speeches were certainly listened to with appar- 
ent interest, by educated and intelligent men ; 
and when she attempted to be witty, she always 
excited a burst of laughter, merely by laughing 
herself. Ought it to excite wonder, that these 
young ladies fancied they possessed every re- 
quisite accomplishment for females, when they 
saw the gentlemen thus obsequious to attend 
their smiles, while the ladies copied all their 
fashions and strove to imitate their manners ? 
Such are the dangers to which the unprotect- 
ed rich are exposed ; — such the omnipotence 
of gold. 

The apartments in the dwelling of the Miss 
Thompsons were all lighted up, and arrange- 
ments had apparently been made for a large 
party. The two sisters, splendidly arrayed, 
were seated on a sofa at the upper end of their 
drawing room, engaged in a low but animated 
conversation ; and a person stationed at such a 
distance as to preclude hearing their words, 
would doubtless have thought them discussing 
the manner in which they intended to receive 
their guests, or dwelling on the pleasure an- 
ticipated from the expected company. But 
ladies, even when arrayed in silks and decked 
with pearls, are not always happy ; nor when 
about to receive with smiles a smiling throng, 
do they always expect gratification. 

4 I am sure, Lucretia, he pays more atten- 
tion to Helen than her relationship to us would 
naturally induce,’ said Miss Eliza Thompson, 
unclasping her bracelet in affected agitation. 


136 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


‘Now pray, sister, show less sensibility,’ 
replied Lucretia. c I have told you it was only 
in consequence of the conversation I held with 
Mr. Howard respecting the Iliad — the name 
of Helen in that charming poem naturally in- 
troduced our cousin’s name, and he made in- 
quiries respecting her which I could not very 
well evade, and so I told him the circumstances 
of her parents’ death, and that she was now 
wholly dependent on us — and I assure you he 
complimented us very highly for our gene- 
rosity in affording her protection. From what 
J said I presume he thought he could not more 
effectually recommend himself to us than by 
noticing the poor girl.’ 

‘ I wonder, Lucretia, you mentioned the 
manner of uncle Bond’s death to Mr. Howard,’ 
said Eliza, attempting to sigh. 4 You know 
his tenderness of heart, and how such histories 
affect him, almost as much as they do me. I 
declare, I never think of uncle Bond without 
shuddering, and I have been half inclined to 
send Helen away, because her presence so 
frequently brings her father to my mind.’ 

4 Is that all the reason you wish her ab- 
sence ?’ 

4 0, no — I think she engrosses the pity, and 
so gains the notice of all our acquaintance. 
And she looks sorrowful all the time — just as 
if she was n’t happy here, and didn’t feel at all 
obliged to us ; and then I see several of the 
young ladies copy her style of dressing her 
hair, as if they thought it more becoming than 
mine.’ 


THE BELLE AND THE BLEU. 


137 


‘You should feel above such things,’ said 
Miss Lucretia, tossing her head with a scorn- 
ful air. i 1 am sure I have more reason to 
dislike Helen than you have, but I will not let 
my mind be moved by insignificant trifles. It 
was only last Thursday when Mr. Beckman 
was here, and we were agreeably engaged in 
discussing the beauties of Marmion. Mr. 
Beckman was trying to recall a stanza in one 
of the songs ; I could not tell him, for indeed I 
only skimmed the book, just to be able to con- 
verse about it ; and don’t you think he asked 
Helen if she recollected it ; and she had the 
effrontery to repeat every word, and then he 
directed all his conversation to her, and she 
seemed to understand all he said, though much 
of it was about characters and sentiments that 
I never heard of before ? I should have been 
provoked with Helen, only I thought myself 
above it.’ 

c It will be just so this evening,’ said Eliza 
‘ You will find Helen will gain the attention of 
Howard and Beckman, and those are the only 
gentlemen we shall have that I care a straw 
for. I wish she was away.’ 

Helen Bond, the innocent cause of all this 
disturbance in the minds of these young ladies, 
was the only child of a deceased clergyman. 
He was drowned by the upsetting of a boat, in 
consequence of the intoxication of one of the 
boatmen, as he was returning from a voyage 
taken for the benefit of his health, and which 
had apparently re-established it. He was 
drowned in sight of his own home, of his wife 


138 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


and child, who had hurried to the beach to wel- 
come his landing. He went down with their 
shrieks of agony ringing in his ears ; but his 
was the most enviable lot. Who can tell the 
bitterness of that sorrow with which the new 
made widow and her fatherless daughter hung 
over the lifeless remains of him, who, under 
heaven, had been their stay and comforter — on 
whom had been all their dependence for hap- 
piness and support ! In such cases i ’tis the 
survivor dies ’ 

Mrs. Bond, however, survived her husband 
only a few months, and then poor Helen had 
no resource but to seek her livelihood among 
strangers, or accept the offer of a residence 
with her cousins, the Miss Thompsons. Hel- 
en Bond had been as well instructed as the 
present imperfect system of female education 
will admit. But with all her 1 solid’ learning 
and accomplishments, she still suffered from 
that radical defect in the fashionable education 
of young women, namely, that she had not been 
taught the application of her learning to any 
useful purpose. It is this defect which ren- 
ders the educated, when deprived of friends 
and resources, less capable of providing for 
themselves than are the ignorant who have not 
been made delicate and sensitive by refinement 
of intellect and manners. 

One feminine accomplishment, however, 
Helen possessed and improved advantageously 
—she excelled in fine needlework, and it was 
the knowledge of her expertness and industry in 
sewing, that induced her cousins to wish her 


THE BELLE AND THE BLEU. 


139 


residence with them. They had need of her 
assistance, for they were very indolent, and 
they availed themselves to the utmost of her 
taste and skill in the designing and finishing 
their elaborate dresses. But still they affect- 
ed to consider Helen as entirely beholden to 
their generosity for a home, and she daily felt 
all the bitterness of dependance, superadded 
to the necessity of earning her own bread. 
She wished to break the thrall, but it required 
an effort of mind, which a timid and delicate 
young lady of eighteen, who had never been 
familiarized to the idea that she could, should 
necessity and duty dictate, support herself, 
would hardly be supposed sufficiently energet- 
ic, to make. But when she discovered the 
envy and jealousy her cousins entertained to- 
wards her, and perhaps felt a little conscious 
when surveying herself in the glass, that she 
was a dangerous rival to them, especially in 
their designs on the heart of one young gentle- 
man whom they wished to attract, she deter- 
mined to leave their roof, though she went to 
service to earn her livelihood. Her resolution 
was accelerated by the occurrences of the eve- 
ning on which the Miss Thompsons gave their 
brilliant assembly. The marked attention 
paid Helen by Horatio Howard exasperated 
the sisters, and the ironical compliments they 
lavished on her the next day, she considered 
so cruel and humiliating, that her spirit, sub- 
dued as it had been by sorrow and suffering, 
rose at once to the aid of her reason, till she 
no longer hesitated to follow its dictates. She 


140 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


applied to a friend of her late father, told him, 
in part, her trials, and besought him to find 
some business in which she might with proprie- 
ty engage. With the most delicate kindness 
he offered her a home in his own family ; but 
though her rejection of his generous offer was, 
for some time, impeded by her tears of grati- 
tude, it was nevertheless decided. 

‘ I cannot,’ said she, ‘ consent to live any 
longer in the ease of opulence, when at the 
best I can only enjoy it by the benevolence 
of friends. If I were deprived of health, or 
incapable of exertion, the case would be other- 
wise ; I would then humbly accept your gene- 
rous offer of a maintenance ; but I am deter- 
mined never to attempt to mingle again in 
splendid circles, while I am dependant on 
charity for a support. There is, sir, to my 
feelings, an impropriety almost an indelicacy, 
in the situation of living thus without any ap- 
parent aim or present usefulness ; yet I own I 
might not have been sensible of this, had not 
the unkind observations of my cousins taught 
me to reflect. I have learned from them that 
the young lady who does so live, is always sup- 
posed by the world to be anxiously watching 
for an opportunity of establishing herself by 
marrying, and that it is generally thought by 
the gentlemen she will accept the first good 
offer. They must then think her vain and 
selfish, if not artful. 0 ! I cannot endure such 
surmises and observations’ — continued she, 
bursting into a flood of tears — ( and if you 


THE BELLE AND THE BLEU. 


141 


wish to make me contented and happy, pray 
tell me something I can do for myself.’ 

Her father’s friend in a short time procured 
for her a situation as Instructress in an Acad- 
emy at some distance from the metropolis ; 
and her letters soon breathed such a spirit of 
satisfaction, that he would have felt amply re- 
compensed for his trouble, in the idea that he 
had contributed to her happiness, without the 
acknowledgements she so frequently and feel- 
ingly made. 

6 I would not,’ she wrote, ( after passing a 
day of activity in my school, exchange the ap- 
probation of my own heart, while it whispers 
I have been usefully, rationally and innocently 
employed, for the opportunity of attending 
every party my fashionable cousins will give 
through the season.’ 

6 And how did her rich and fashionable 
cousins enjoy themselves ? Did they succeed 
in securing their favorite beaux, when the 
field was left them without a rival ?’ every 
young lady is ready to inquire. 

They did not, either of them, secure Hora- 
tio Howard. Yet he was very ambitious, as 
young lawyers, who feel a consciousness of 
their own abilities, are apt to be ; and he knew 
enough of the world to be sensible that the 
eclat and advantage of commencing business 
with a capital of $50,000 would be a mighty 
convenient thing. And he began his visits to 
the Miss Thompsons with something very 
much like a resolution of making love to one 
of them. Lucretia was the first object of his 


142 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


scrutiny — it could be called nothing else — but 
with her he was soon disgusted. 

To a man of real refinement, good sense, 
taste and intelligence, the character of a would- 
be-literary lady is, 1 believe, most intolerable. 
The affectation of those whims and eccentrici- 
ties, said to distinguish genius, is of all affecta- 
tions, most preposterous, and always indicative 
of a silly mind, or weak judgment — in a man it 
is ridiculous, in a woman disgusting. Yet this 
affectation was all the claim Lucretia had to 
genius. She pretended to be absent-minded, 
ignorant of common affairs, and above all, to 
despise the dull routine of domestic duties her 
sex enjoined upon her. Then she talked loud 
and as learnedly as Mrs. Malaprop, and de- 
lighted in criticism and controversy, argument 
being, as she considered, her peculiar forte. 
This propensity was much strengthened by 
the manner in which she was treated by the 
gentlemen — the civility due a lady, especially 
a rich lady, prompted them to allow the asser- 
tions of Lucretia all the credit of facts, and so 
she usually gained the argument. But they 
indemnified themselves for these concessions, 
as they always do, by representing the object 
of their complaisance too insignificant for seri- 
ous opposition. Yet they dreaded the society 
of Lucretia, and while ridiculing her pedantry, 
generally hated her person. At least so did 
Horatio Howard. But still he felt loath to re- 
linquish the ,$50,000, and so turned his atten- 
tion on the belle , and Miss Eliza Thompson 
was, for some time, flattered with the idea that 


THE BELLE AND THE BLEU. 


143 


she should win him. But if he was disgusted 
with the affectation of literature in the bleu , he 
was sickened by the affectation of sentiment 
and sensibility in the belle ; and he could not 
but acknowledge that though learning might 
make a woman excessively disagreeable, yet 
she might be excessively disagreeable without 
it. But yet he was constant in his visits, while 
Helen Bond resided with her cousins, and lis- 
tened without much apparent weariness to the 
‘ long talks’ of Lucretia and the common place 
' nothings of Eliza ; and the world had decided 
that he would certainly marry one of the sisters. 
Perhaps he rather thought such would be the 
conclusion of the matter. However he called 
on the young ladies a few days after the de- 
parture of Helen Bond, and they both remark- 
ed he was in very bad humor, seemed impatient, 
almost irritable, while they were exerting them- 
selves to entertain him ; the one criticising the 
sermon she had heard the last sabbath — and 
the other ridiculing the odious bonnets she had 
seen at church — till finally, Howard started 
abruptly from his seat, said something of busi- 
ness to be attended to, and wished them both 
good morning. He was seen walking hastily 
towards his office, his hat set very perpendicu- 
lar on his head, and his lips firmly compressed ; 
and to judge from his conduct, afterwards, he 
was then breathing a vow never to risk his do- 
mestic happiness by a marriage in which gold 
was the only object of pursuit. F rom that time 
he devoted himself entirely to the business of 
his profession ; invitations were rejected and 


144 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


parties neglected, till finally, though he obtain- 
ed high reputation at the bar, he entirely lost 
credit with the ladies, and his name was omitted 
on their list of beaux, being called a confirm- 
ed bachelor. 

But there is no danger that young ladies 
with $50,000 will not find husbands, though 
like Lucretia, they make a resolution never to 
wed a man that has not been liberally educat- 
ed. A thoroughly selfish mind, even when 
polished by a liberal education, will retain its 
selfishness. Such a mind had John Beckman, 
and though he disliked Lucretia Thompson he 
married her. There was probably more af- 
fection on her part, yet she declared that it 
was only because Mr. Beckman knew so well 
how to appreciate her talents that she was in- 
duced to accept him. But his estimation of 
her talents, after the ‘ vow was said,’ she found 
altered materially ; he no longer consulted her 
opinion, before expressing his own, nor yielded 
her every contested point, nor expressed any 
wishes that his taste might be always in ac- 
cordance with hers. Indeed their opinions or 
taste, were seldom in accordance after the first 
three months of their wedded life had passed. 
In vain she tried arguments, reproaches and 
railings, to convince him she was ill-treated. 
He would not be convinced 

c Mr. Beckman,’ said she, ner eyes flashing 
fire, and her whole countenance glowing with 
rage, ‘ had I known you for such an obstinate 
mule, one that will not listen to an argument, 
I never would have married you.’ 


THE BELLE AXD THE BLEU. 


145 


‘ Madam,’ he replied, with the most perfect 
coolness, 4 1 am not disappointed in you — I al- 
ways knew you for a fool.’ 

Eliza Thompson married a husband more 
congenial in disposition to herself ; a pert, con- 
ceited fop, all fashion and affectation. Her 
money supported them in style just ten years, 
and they lived by expedients three more of 
showy poverty, and then all the glitter of life, 
and consequently to them, all its joys were 
over. They now inhabit a miserable garret, 
up three pair of stairs, dependant mostly on the 
charity of their relations. The bounty of Mrs. 
Beckman is, however, grudgingly bestowed on 
her sister, and always accompanied by a chap- 
ter of reproaches, under the title of advice. 
The answer of Eliza is generally to the purport, 
that she has a kind husband, and therefore is 
as happy without fortune as Lucretia is with. 

Mr. Jacob Towner is careful to add a little 
to his stores every year, but yet constantly 
harangues his family on the vanity of setting 
the affections on the things of this world, ob- 
serving that rich men’s children are frequently 
paupers, and illustrating his position by citing 
the case of Eliza Thompson ; always ending 
his remarks with the hope that some of her 
$50,000 found its way back into the pockets 
of those poor men from whom it was wrung 
by her father. Mrs. Patten, likewise, often 
quotes the name of Eliza Thompson, when 
she would warn her daughters against extrav- 
agance in dress, or idleness, which she thinks 
was the whole cause of the misfortunes of the 
13 


146 


AMERICAN SKETCHES 


heiress ; and Miss Horton congratulates her- 
self she was never induced to marry, saying, 
4 that the fate of the rich Miss Thompsons was 
a warning to her ; if those ladies could only ob- 
tain for husbands the one a sullen miser, and the 
other a silly spendthrift, she is sure the single 
state must be the one of 44 blessedness.” ’ 
Helen Bond — what young lady does not wish 
to learn the fate of that afflicted, but high-souled 
girl ? Horatio Howard — what young gentle- 
man, especially if he prefer that 4 clear honor ’ 
which is 4 purchased by the merit of the wear- 
er,’ to the trappings of wealth, obtained by the 
perjury of the heart, does not feel curious to 
know the issue of the fortunes of Horatio How- 
ard ? Talents and merit, if supported by in- 
dustry and prudence, have, in our free country, 
nothing to fear. Horatio Howard gained the 
station of eminence he so justly deserved ; and 
to the friend who not long since visited him, he 
said, as they were returning from a walk in the 
gardens around his beautiful summer residence 
— 4 Yes, I have been, as you remark, highly 
prospered, but the best, gift Heaven ever be- 
stowed on me was, my — wife. It may sound 
foolish for me to speak her eulogium — to a 
stranger, I certainly should not thus unlock the 
44 secret casket of my soul but you, sir, was 
acquainted with Helen Bond, and with my par- 
tiality for her. But dearly as I loved her then, 
she is now far dearer, because I now know 
her worth and can repose my whole heart in 
confidence upon her discretion as well as her 
affection. There is for me no place like home . 7 


THE POOR SCHOLAR. 


‘Where\er there has existed wise institutions for the secu- 
rity of liberty the progress of knowledge has immediately be- 
come visible. There is then a bright inducement in every 
career which an ardent mind springs forward to attain.’ 

Madame de Stael. 


Not intellectually poor, but few however 
would be guilty of such a mistake. Most men, 
and indeed women too, consider poverty mere- 
ly as the lack of worldly goods, chattels and 
possessions ; poor therefore would never, by 
such, be applied to mind. 

But I like to define my meaning so clearly 
that there shall not be the possibility of mistake; 
and accordingly I feel bound to declare that 
George Torrey had, from infancy, exhibited an 
uncommon aptitude for learning, and that kind 
of inquisitiveness concerning the nature and 
design of everything he saw, that marks the 
reasoning child. These qualities always argue 
a tendency of mind that requires only right 
cultivation to insure eminence, or at least, 
scholarship, to their possessor. ‘ Knowledge 
may be acquired by study, but genius is the 
gift of God,’ is, 1 believe, a quotation ; and had 
the writer of the apothegm known George Tor- 


148 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


rey, he might have mentioned him as an illus- 
tration of his proverb, since it seemed impossi- 
ble his inclination for study should have been 
fostered either by example or precept. I shall 
relate the childish history of my hero minutely, 
that those who feel interested in the subject 
may have an opportunity of tracing the opera- 
tions of his young mind, and then they can 
better decide on the propriety of styling him, 
as he often was, the 1 scholar of nature.’ The 
father of George died before he was born, and 
his mother, when he was eighteen months old ; 
and then the boy would have been on the pau- 
per list, but for the benevolence of an aunt, an 
old maid, but who was nevertheless such a 
good, kind hearted creature, that it was always 
a matter of astonishment to the gossips why 
aunt Jemima was never married. 

When aunt Jemima thus voluntarily burden- 
ed herself with the charge of an infant, she was 
rising of forty years of age, very poor, obtain- 
ing her livelihood solely by spinning. She 
was, however, as expert in the business of the 
distaff, as ever were the ladies of Rome ; but 
as she never attempted to dignify her employ- 
ment by any classical allusions, it is probable 
she had never heard the name of 6 Lucretia.’ 
Yet she had pride, and it would be no dispar- 
agement to the Roman ladies to say aunt Je- 
mima’s was Roman pride ; certainly it was lau- 
dable ambition, for it stimulated her to honest 
exertions for her own support and the mainte- 
nance of her little nephew, without appealing to 
the cold charity of her prosperous neighbours, 


THE POOR SCHOLAR. 


l4i> 

or the colder charity of the law. She kept 
George with her till he was eight, and then a 
farmer offering to take him and learn him the 
‘ mystery of agriculture,’ she deemed it her 
duty to place the boy with Mr. White. But 
the separation cost her many tears, and she 
often declared that 1 if she had not thought it 
best for the child to go, she would have work- 
ed her hands off before she would have parted 
with the dear little creature.’ 

George had never been at school a single 
day while with his aunt ; she thought she could 
not provide books for him, and moreover, she 
lived two miles from the school-house, and was 
afraid to trust her darling to go so far alone. 

But when she read in her Bible, which was 
regularly every morning, little George was per- 
mitted to stand close by her chair, and encour- 
aged to find and tell the large letters. When 
he had thus learned them, his curiosity seemed 
increased ; and his aunt willingly answered his 
inquiries, because she really loved him, and 
dearly loved to talk, and so he learned the small 
letters, and then it was not long before he could 
read a verse intelligibly. By the time he was 
four years of age he had read through the 1 Gos- 
pel according to St. John.’ 

Though aunt Jemima thus fostered the 
‘ young idea,’ she was herself as destitute of 
those acquirements that confer on a woman the 
character of a has blue , as any of our fastidious- 
ly fashionable young beaux could desire. The 
most sensitive of the tribe of dandies might 
have conversed with aunt Jemima without the 
13 * 


150 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


least dread of being shocked by a Latin quota- 
tion, or bored by a learned phrase, or a refer- 
ence to books of which he never before heard 
the titles ; neither would he have run any haz- 
ard of being urged to write in an ‘ album,’ or 
tell his opinion of the ‘ last new novel,’ or ad- 
mire the last ‘ charming poem.’ Aunt Jemi- 
ma knew no more of novels or albums, than 
she did of Greek or Arabic ; indeed it is not 
probable she had ever read a whole volume of 
any kind, (the Bible excepted) during her life. 
Her library, besides the 6 Scriptures,’ consisted 
of but two books, both of which she inherited 
from her grandmother. One was a sermon, 
preached somewhere in Connecticut, at the 
funeral of an Indian who was hanged for mur- 
der. This sermon, aunt Jemima said, ‘ though 
she never had had time to read it all, she thought 
very edifying.’ Indeed she prized it so highly 
that she did not like to trust it in the grasp of a 
careless child ; but the other book, labelled 
‘Wonderful accidents and entertaining Stories,’ 
she permitted George to use as he pleased. 
The volume had once contained some interest- 
ing articles, but time, smoke, and the hands of 
‘ unwashed artificers’ had made its pages near- 
ly as dingy and illegible as a Herculaneum 
manuscript. The story of ‘ Alnaschar the 
Persian Glassman,’ being in the middle of the 
book, was however tolerably entire, but it was 
much abridged, ending with the breaking of the 
glass. The plate representing the overturn of 
the basket pleased little George, and he soon 
learned to read the fable ; he read and re-read 


THE POOR SCHOLAR. 


151 


it till he could repeat every word, and then he 
reasoned with aunt Jemima on the subject till 
he made her quite pettish at answering his in- 
quiries about so silly a story ; and then he con- 
sidered the matter himself in silence, till he 
learned to understand the meaning and the 
moral more judiciously than would many a 
grown man. Perhaps that story determined 
the bias of his mind, for he was, even in early 
youth, noted for the directness with which he 
sought and comprehended the effect of any 
romantic project, always seeming to distrust 
everything illusory, and to feel that exertions , 
not idle wishes or visions, were necessary to 
success. 

There was also another circumstance that 
contributed to fix an impression on the mind 
of George that perseverance would be reward- 
ed, and that he might, if he took proper meth- 
ods, hope to obtain some consequence in the 
world. Though aunt Jemima paid little atten- 
tion to the story of i Alnaschar,’ yet she was 
proud of the proficiency her favorite made in 
reading the Scriptures. Whenever the cler- 
gyman of the parish called to see her, which 
duty he usually performed regularly every 
year, she always dilated on the progress her 
nephew made in learning, telling how many 
chapters he would read in the Bible of a Sun- 
day, &c. (she never mentioned the story book) 
usually concluding with the observation, 4 that 
for her part it seemed to her that the boy was 
born to be a minister.’ 

To please her the good man once requested 


152 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


to hear the child read, and was himself very- 
much surprised at his performance, because he 
read so understanding^. He called the boy 
to him, and laying his hand on the curly hair 
of the poor, destitute orphan, gravely said, 
‘ My little fellow you have no father on earth, 
but your Father who is in heaven still watches 
over you. He will take care of you if you are 
good, and you must look to him, and love him, 
and serve him. You can learn, I see, and you 
may, if you try, be a scholar, and perhaps a 
great man. You must always depend on God, 
but remember and do all you can for yourself.’ 

That lesson was never effaced from the 
memory of George Torrey. He had never 
before received notice or encouragement from 
any mortal except his old aunt, and the sooth- 
ing expressions of the minister fell on his ear 
like a sacred promise from some exalted be- 
ing. 

The farmer to whom George was bound was 
a man of some property, and reputed honest 
and industrious ; but he had no education. In- 
deed both he and his wife, (would there were 
none other such couples to be found in our 
country,) were profoundly ignorant of every- 
thing pertaining to literature, excepting that 
they could read, and write their names ; and 
had not the boy enjoyed the advantage of at- 
tending the district school, he would in no wise 
have been mentally benefited by his change 
of abode. But it was stipulated in his 4 Inden- 
ture,’ that he should be 4 sent to school two 
months every winter till he could read, write 


THE POOR SCHOLAR. 


153 


and cipher through the rule of Three. ’ Such 
is the vigilance with which our laws watch 
over the interests of the poor and destitute ; 
none here are deprived of the benefit of instruc- 
tion, none need be ignorant. 

The first winter that George Torrey attend- 
ed school, his proficiency astonished his in- 
structed and made Mr. White declare c he 
did’nt believe the lad would ever be good for 
anything at farming.’ But a judicious person 
who had been acquainted with the operations 
of his young mind, and the peculiar train of 
ideas he had imbibed, might have calculated 
the result. Though aunt Jemima did not ex- 
pect it, yet she was highly delighted, and took 
much credit to herself for the manner in which 
she had instructed the child. 

Ten years passed, and George Torrey was 
in stature a man ; in understanding and learn- 
ing, he was far superior to the men among 
whom he resided ; but his modesty and the 
retiring diffidence that usually accompanies 
genius when self-taught, prevented him from 
assuming those airs of superiority that fre- 
quently bring envy and ill-will to the possessor 
of extraordinary abilities. The business in 
which he was engaged could not be supposed 
congenial to his feelings, yet he labored faith- 
fully for Mr. White ; and that man, destitute 
as he was of taste and literature, paid great 
respect to the talents of his indented boy, em- 
ploying him to keep his accounts, consulting 
him in all his bargains, and frequently allowing 
him leisure for reading w r hich seemed incom- 


154 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


patible with his own interest, and which would 
not have been expected from a person of his 
habits. But in a country where there is no 
privileged class, genius and industry may attain 
the highest honors ; and thus a value is stamp- 
ed upon talents, which carries a conviction of 
their worth to the minds of those who make no 
pretension of possessing them. 

The winter succeeding the eighteenth birth- 
day of George was an important one to him, as 
it was then he first formed a fixed resolve to 
obtain an education. At that time, the clergy- 
man, who had listened to the Bible lesson of 
George, heard his attainments spoken of as 
extraordinary for his opportunities ; and on in- 
quiry being satisfied of the truth of popular 
report, he proposed the youth as a teacher, in 
his, the clergyman’s district, for the winter 
school. The worthy parson felt glad to assist 
George, and he felt a little proud too, that the 
prediction he had uttered concerning him, 
seemed likely to be fulfilled. 

Mr. White was persuaded to allow George 
to go, yet he said he 1 needed him at home, but 
as the young fellow seemed so set upon the 
business, he could not disappoint him. Learn- 
ing he knew was a fine thing, though he never 
could get it, for he never loved his book ; but 
George loved to study better than he did to eat 
— he had known him leave his dinner many a 
time to read a newspaper, or anything that 
had letters on it — and so,’ he continued, 6 it is 
for his good I consent to let him go.’ 

Mr. White thought of his own interest, not- 


THE POOR SCHOLAR. 


155 


withstanding these professions ; George had 
offered, if he might be allowed to keep the 
school, to give every cent of his wages to his 
legal master — and it w'ould be more than he 
could earn by labor. The youth expected only 
more leisure, and books, and better society — 
that was all he then coveted, to make him bles- 
sed. He boarded with the clergyman, Mr. 
Dorr, who was not long in discovering his tal- 
ents and thirst for learning. Mr. Dorr, was 
one of those really benevolent men, who de- 
light in doing good, and diffusing happiness ; — 
yet he was not a visionary. His sound judg- 
ment and acquaintance with the world, served 
to correct that enthusiasm, which the warmth 
of feeling, necessary to make a philanthropist, 
often raises to an effervescence of zeal which 
destroys, or renders ridiculous, the cause or 
object it is attempting to serve. 

Mr. Dorr weighed deliberately the present 
prospects, and what might be the future expec- 
tations of the poor scholar. He conversed 
with George freely, and faithfully, on the sub- 
ject ; represented to him the struggles he must 
make, the privations he must endure, the mor- 
tifications to which he would be exposed, if he 
left the vale of humble life, where he was born, 
and had been raised, and aspired to rank with 
the rich, and mingle with the gifted. 

£ I can do it all, I can bear it all,’ eagerly 
replied George Torrey, c if I may but escape 
poverty of mind — this sense of my own igno- 
rance that oppresses me, whenever I approach 
or attempt to converse with an intelligent per 


156 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


son; t have,’ continued he, rising and walking 
the room with quickness, 4 1 have frequently 
laid down the book I was reading, and wept 
to think I should never be qualified to write 
one.’ 

4 Onward, then, must be your motto,’ said 
Mr. Dorr. 4 Onward ; the path will sometimes 
be rugged, but a prize cannot be won without 
labor. Industry is, in our land, the grand lev- 
er that exalts to eminence. I will cheerfully 
give you all the aid I can. If you succeed, 
your own pleasure and the praises of the world 
will be enhanced by reflecting on the obstacles 
you have surmounted ; should you fail, you 
can comfort yourself, that your object was 
praiseworthy. It is motives, not triumphs, 
that make the merit of our character.’ 

George Torrey immediately commenced the 
study of the Latin ; and when his school was 
finished, had read six books in Yirgil. 

4 You must now return to your labor, to the 
plough,’ said Mr. Dorr, to George, as he ex- 
tended his hand to him. 4 1 am not able to as- 
sist you in purchasing your time, neither do I 
think it best to attempt it. Young men are 
prone to be restless and impatient of restraint, 
and genius is peculiarly restive under fetters ; 
but lessons of self-denial are rarely injurious to 
a mind like yours. The dull require the spur, 
the ardent need the rein. I advise you to 
serve out your time as the law directs — but 
there will be intervals when you may, without 
wronging your master by eyeservice, pursue 
your studies. Improve such moments, ar.d 


THE POOR SCHOLAR. 


157 


come to me, as freely as a son to a father, for 
instruction whenever you wish.’ 

There is nothing on earth so valued by the 
young, ingenuous mind as kindness, as those 
expressions that seem dictated by a sympathy 
for our feelings and situation. The eyes of 
George were full of tears, and his heart throb- 
bed with emotions of gratitude, as he turned 
from the door of the man whom he considered 
his friend. He felt for him a love, a venera- 
tion, which no pecuniary gift could have excit- 
ed ; and the first effort he ever made to scrib- 
ble poetry, was to celebrate the virtues of his 
benefactor, which he did in a long ode. 

Mr. White made George a present of five 
dollars out of the money he had earned, and the 
youth was quite thankful, because he was ena- 
bled to purchase some books he sadly needed ; 
but he never bestowed on Mr. White so much 
as a distich in praise of the deed. 

The success of George is doubtless antici- 
pated ; and to detail all the particulars, the 
carefulness with which he improved every mo- 
ment, the shifts he made to obtain books, the 
distances he would walk to his recitations, and 
the joy he felt when the law pronounced him 
free , and Mr. Dorr pronounced him fitted for 
college, would make my story too long. Any 
young man, let his station be ever so lowly, 
who feels the same ardor in the pursuit of 
knowledge that kindled the mind of my hero, 
may satisfy himself, if he will only make the 
experiment, that success is possible. When a 
name and a praise may here be obtained by 
14 


15S 


AMERICAN SKETCHE3. 


talents and industry, who that feels the c God 
within him ’ will be contented in ignorance 
and obscurity ? 

But though George Torrey was fitted to en- 
ter college, he had not the means of support- 
ing himself there a single day. All that his 
master was bound to give him, when he was 
twenty-one, was two suits of clothes and a Bi- 
ble. Mr. Dorr again volunteered to assist him. 
‘ I will,’ said the good man, ‘ advance you a 
sum sufficient to defray the expense of your 
first, term, and wait these ten years, if neces- 
sary, for payment. But that is all the pecuni- 
ary aid I can promise you — you must thence- 
forth provide for yourself. I am acquainted 
with the President, and one of the tutors is 
my intimate friend. I will write to them, and 
make such representations as will, I think, in- 
duce them to deal favorably by you, and grant 
you periods of absence, which you must em- 
ploy in keeping school. If you are indus- 
trious — no, that is not enough, you must be 
laboi'ious , you can pursue your studies and re- 
tain your station in your class, though absent 
six months' in the year. Depend on yourself. 
Never solicit charity if you can possibly avoid 
it though when kindly offered, I would not ad- 
vise you to reject it. But the spirit of our 
government, of our people, is independence ; 
and the mind of an American, that will cringe 
and fawn to obtain patronage, or indeed that 
will eagerly accept pecuniary' aid, I always 
mark as grovelling, as deficient in that delicacy 
of pride, that nice sense of honor which always 


THE POOR SCHOLAR. 


159 


accompanies true genius. Never, my young 
friend, forfeit your own self-respect ; for your 
heart will not be satisfied with the applause of 
the world, unless you feel it is deserved.’ 

Fortified by such advice, and furnished with 
a little cash, George departed ; and perhaps 
when it is considered that his most ardent wish- 
es seemed likely to be fulfilled, it may be im- 
agined he went joyfully. But it was not so. 
When a person has been accustomed to a large 
society and frequent changes of his acquaint- 
ance, his feelings become, in a manner, gene- 
ralized , , and he contemplates, without much 
emotion, a separation from his old friends or an 
introduction to new. But the warm-hearted 
youth who has, whether from diffidence or ne- 
cessity, confined his thoughts and affections to 
one set of objects, feels, on quitting them, as 
though the world were a desert ; as if all, be- 
yond the little paradise of his love, were a wil- 
derness ; and he should meet, instead of the 
flowers, which, humble as they^were, had still 
blessed his path, beasts of prey at every step. 

Much of this melancholy dread of the world 
mingled with the triumph of being enabled to 
pursue his studies, in the heart of George Tor- 
rey, when he bade farewell to the man whom 
he esteemed above every other person on earth, 
and loved the best — aunt Jemima excepted. 
None of his ambitious hopes had effaced from 
his memory the kindness and affection of her 
whom he considered his mother, and those 
hours that young men usually devote to the 
society of young ladies, or clubs of their own 


160 AMERICAN SKETCHES. 

sex, he had passed in the lonely and lowly 
apartment of his poor old aunt, telling her his 
progress and his plans, or perhaps reciting 
some of his lessons which, though said in what- 
ever language they might be, were still ‘ Greek 
to her,’ she yet liked to hear, ‘ because,’ she 
observed, ‘ he could say his lesson so fast.’ And 
she was constantly boasting to every person 
she could make listen to her, of the marvellous 
acquirements of her nephew, declaring she 
‘did not believe there would be a scholar in col- 
lege'who could read faster.’ 

Neither was her admiration of learning an 
inactive principle ; all the assistance she could 
render her own boy, as she called George, was 
eagerly done. This however only amounted 
to the giving him a few articles of clothing, 
(her own manufacturing of course, and in her 
opinion much the better for that,) and a vast 
deal of good advice ; in particular, she charged 
him not to waste any time in vain company, for 
she knew the evil of it, having been, when very 
young, too fond of dancing ; — and then he must 
always rise early, she found it the best for her 
own health ; and above all, not sit up too late 
at night, it was very bad for the eyes. ‘ I find,’ 
continued she, with a half sigh, ‘ I have set up 
too late myself ; not studying to be sure, but 
working for you, George, and my eyes begin 
to fail a little already.’ 

She was past sixty ; but when did a sin- 
gle woman ever willingly think herself old ? 
Though the sensitiveness which is sometimes 
betrayed on this delicate subject is certainly a 


THE POOR SCHOLAR. 


161 


weakness, yet if we examine the principle which 
causes that susceptibility, we shall, at least, 
acknowledge it an amiable weakness. There 
have been, — the sentiment is fast losing advo- 
cates, — but there have been opinions industri- 
ously propagated, that those ladies who lived 
to a certain age without worshipping in the 
temple of Hymen, were not always as women 
should be — ‘soft, mild, pitiful and flexible.’ 
In short, old maids have been considered un- 
lovely and unloving, and what true woman but 
recoils with instinctive horror from such a con- 
clusion ? and deems the denial of her age ve- 
nial when she would otherwise be subjected to 
the imputation of being fastidious, malicious, 
envious, ill-natured ? It is an intuitive sense 
of the worth and beauty of goodness, and an 
abhorrence of the qualities which unfeeling sa- 
tire or stupid misapprehension have stamped 
upon the name of old maid, that make the term 
one of reproach and dread. 

These remarks, considering the relation in 
which aunt Jemima stood to the poor scholar, 
can hardly be called a digression. Had he 
known his character was to have been sketch- 
ed, he would have insisted his kind relative 
should have occupied at least half the space 
allotted for his portrait. He loved her sincere- 
ly, and always, during his life, vindicated the 
neglected, yet useful order of spinsters , from 
the unmerited calumnies with which they are 
too often assailed. 

A few weeks after George had departed, 
Mr. Dorr received from his friend, the tutor, 

14 * 


162 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


a letter, which will better delineate the appear- 
ance of the youth and the impression he made 
on the minds of his new associates, than any 
description I could myself give. I have there- 
fore obtained leave to transcribe what related 
to him. It is somewhat long, but will not, I 
hope, be found uninteresting. 

‘ Your young friend is quite an original ; and 
were there not one here to ‘ divide the crown’ 
with him, we should consider him a prodigy. 
As it is, he excites much interest with us tu- 
tors, and some envy, I fear, among the students. 
But our opinions appear to have little effect up- 
on him ; he goes forward, without asking ad- 
miration or heeding ridicule, seemingly deter- 
mined to master every science, and feeling the 
acquisition of knowledge a sufficient reward 
for all his pains. This I think to be the effect 
of the solitary manner in which he has hitherto 
pursued his studies. His mind has thus acquir- 
ed an aim, and the habit of depending on itself, 
on its own resources and reflections for those 
sensations of pleasure, that it is usually thought 
can never be enjoyed except in communica- 
tion and participation, that is, in social inter- 
course. His reserve, which the young wits in 
the class are, I find, quite disposed to ridicule, 
is, in my opinion, as much the effect of his men- 
tal independence, as of that diffidence which 
you say he always exhibited. His fine talents 
are disciplined, not discouraged by adversity, 
and his judgment so cool and regulated, that 
did not an occasional flash of spirit betray that 
warmth of temperament which circumstances 


THE POOR SCHOLAR. 


163 


have made it necessary for him to suppress, I 
should think him born a Quaker. But he is 
now an excellent specimen of the Puritan 
character, in which shrewdness and simplicity, 
ambition and humility, patience and activity, 
fervor in spirit and prudence in action, were so 
blended or so admirably balanced, that the 
minds thus actuated possessed a decision which 
rendered them invincible. It is this regulation 
of the passions which constitutes that self- 
control so necessary to freemen, to those who 
govern themselves ; yet it is only a strong 
mind that is ever endowed, in an eminent de- 
gree, with this decision ; and it is only a cul- 
tivated mind that makes it appear amiable. 

‘But it sits amiably on George Torrey, be- 
cause he has so much modesty that you would 
not, without close investigation, imagine him 
such a determined character ; and thus his ex- 
traordinary progress is attributed more to his 
superior industry (which excites, you know, 
but little envy) than to his superior genius. 

‘ It is gladdening to see how talents will 
surmount difficulties, but it rejoices me more to 
behold their triumph over temptations. The 
youth whom I mentioned as likely to prove a 
formidable rival to George in the classical race, 
is a fine example of this triumph. He is from 
Virginia ; his father, as I understand, is a very 
rich man, one of the proud aristocracy of that 
proud State. Robert Simonds has, therefore, 
been from infancy accustomed to every indul- 
gence and elegance that wealth can purchase, 
and all that adulation that follows prosperity 


164 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


and high rank. But this flattery has not ener- 
vated his mind ; it has only modified his man- 
ners. He has all that boldness of imagination, 
that brilliancy of genius, that is elicited by cul- 
ture and commendation. 1 do not think he has 
more confidence in his own powers, more of 
what we will call pride, than George Torrey 
has ; and yet his display of himself is so very 
different, that a stranger would call one haugh- 
ty, the other humble. The original constitution 
of the minds of these young men was doubtless 
very similar ; had the children been changed 
in their cradles, as fairy stories have whilom 
related possible, they would probably with their 
names have completely changed characters. 
There is, however, always a sympathy between 
such spirits, unless jealousy of each other’s at- 
tainments should keep them aloof, — but this 
jealousy Robert is too noble to indulge towards 
one, who, like George Torrey, (I have related 
to Robert the whole history of his rival,) is 
struggling for an education as the means of 
support ; and on the other hand, the principles 
of George are too well regulated to permit him 
to harbor jealousy or envy against any person. 
So these youths are already warm friends, and 
I encourage the intimacy, because I think they 
will reap a mutual advantage from the inter- 
course. 1 admire to see them sitting side by 
side, at their recitations, or walking arm in arm 
to their recreations, — there has been such a 
contrast in their brief histories, and yet there is 
such a similarity in their feelings, that it affords 
much food for my philosophy, to trace the caus- 


THE POOR SCHOLAR. 


165 


es which have thus brought the mind of one 
KL.oed in the lap of luxury, and that of a poor 
parish child on a perfect level. These causes 
must be sought in our free institutions, in that 
perfect equality of birth which our laws declare 
to be fixed in the nature of things, and there- 
fore unchangeable. While our constitution 
remains inviolate in this article, neither the 
corruptions of luxury, nor the debasements of 
poverty, will ever degrade the minds of our 
countrymen to an extent that shall have much 
perceptible effect on public morals, or render 
precarious the preservation of our freedom ; be- 
cause there will be a redeeming influence in 
the talents and virtue, that our impartial insti- 
tutions will call forth from both extremes of our 
population — the rich and the poor. Equality 
of birth, and the necessity of universal educa- 
tion, are principles never before recognised or 
acted upon by any government ; till these are 
relinquished, our republic is safe. They may 
tell of the corruption of statesmen and the vio- 
lence of party, but the majority will, after all, 
go right ; and though vice and ignorance may 
sometimes be exalted, yet open admiration and 
unhesitating suffrage will not be given except 
to intelligence and virtue. These thoughts 
have been forced upon me while reflecting upon 
the favorable influence which the principle of 
equality has had on my two favorite pupils. 

1 It has stimulated them both to exertion, and 
will probably be the means of making them or- 
naments to their country. It taught Robert Si- 
monds that his father’s rank and wealth could 


166 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


never be his passport to high consideration, — 
he must himself deserve the fame he coveted. 
It encouraged the destitute orphan, while toil- 
ing for liis bread, to cultivate those talents he 
felt he possessed, by showing that the prize 
was within his reach. It has thus directed 
and impelled two minds of uncommon powers 
to the attainment of knowledge and the love of 
excellence, that appear likely to qualify them for 
extensive usefulness ; and thus, if we do not 
subscribe to the opinion that ignorance is bliss, 
we must believe the sum of human happiness 
is proportionably increased. 

‘ I am told that there are some, even in our 
republican land, who attach great importance 
to a pedigree, and imagine a kind of refinement 
of blood is imparted to the individual whose 
ancestors have, for two, or three generations, 
laid by their working dresses. I should like to 
have such title-loving people look upon my 
specimen of nobility and of peasantry. They 
would feel proud of both. Robert Simonds 
commands attention, and George Torrey en- 
gages it. No person can behold either with 
indifference. They positively are the finest 
looking young men I ever saw. I often exam- 
ine their features to decide which of the two is 
the handsomest;, but I never yet could. Still 
there is no resemblance between them, except 
that their height is the same. The figure of 
George, though perfectly proportioned, shows 
the strength of bones and sinews that have 
been ‘ strung by toil.’ Robert is more slender 
in form, and the richness and nicety of his ap- 


THE rOOR SCHOLAR. 


167 


parel, combine to give him an air of effemina- 
cy, especially if you regard his hand, which a 
lady might envy ; it is so small, taper-fingered 
and delicate. George, on the contrary, is al- 
ways plainly arrayed, and his hand, you know, 
is enlarged by exercise, and hardened by the 
plough. But the moment you look in his face, 
you forget that labor has any effect but to 
beautify. His active employment has strength- 
ened his constitution, and imparted such a fine, 
healthy glow to his complexion, that it really 
makes one feel younger and happier to gaze 
upon him ; even his midnight vigils cannot de- 
stroy his bloom. But Robert will do to enact 
the 1 pale student,’ except when his spirit is 
kindled, and then the blood rushes to his face 
till his cheeks are died like scarlet. When- 
ever I see Robert alone, I always think black 
is much the most beautiful color for the eye, — 
that such have the most expression — the most 
soul. But the moment George enters, his bright 
blue eyes, flashing with the consciousness of 
ideas, or animated with eagerness to gain 
them, I alter my opinion, — or at least, I think 
the cobr of the eye is of no consequence. In 
short I am, as you have doubtless discovered, 
enthusiastic in my admiration and my expec- 
tations from both these young men.’ 

It is not my purpose to describe minutely 
the progress of George Torrey, and the ex- 
ertions he used while obtaining his education. 
The four years passed, — he had struggled 
with many discouragements, and spent many 
melancholy hours, but, aided by the counsels 


16S 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


of his old friend Mr. Dorr, and, whenever he 
would accept it, by more tangible tokens of 
regard from his young friend Robert Simonds, 
and always exerting his own abilities to the ut- 
most to help himself, George had succeeded. 
The 1 poor scholar,’ had won the highest hon- 
ors of the college. The ‘ Valedictory’ was the 
part assigned him in the exercises of the day ; 
he would willingly have relinquished it in favor 
of his friend ; indeed, he declared that of 
right Robert Simonds should have had it ; but 
that generous young man replied ; — 1 I do not 
pretend, George, to disclaim all ambition to 
have that appointment ; it would have gratified 
my vanity, but it is not essential to my inter- 
est. If I have, as you kindly intimate, the 
learning that would entitle me to it, all I need 
is obtained ; but to you, my friend, it may be 
of more benefit. Honor may be profit ,’ contin- 
ued he smiling, ( and though your independence 
of spirit has given me trouble enough, yet I 
admire it, and hope that the time is not far dis- 
tant when you will bask in the smiles of for- 
tune.’ 

‘ Yes, but then I must lose those of my 
friend,’ replied George. ‘ 0, this is a sad 
world I think, since the saddest of all poets so 
often expresses my feelings, 

‘ Our very wishes, give us not our wish !’ 

That is now precisely applicable to my mind ; 
I have often thought, that could I reach the 
station in my class, which I may at this moment 
call mine, I should be perfectly blessed. But 


THE POOR SCHOLAR. 


169 


after this pageant of vain glory, this commence- 
ment is over, then will come the real sorrow, 
the parting with you.’ 

‘ Why need we part ?’ asked Robert. 1 Why 
will you not conclude to accompany me to the 
South ; my father — ah, I see the haughty curl 
on your lip, giving its veto against dependence. 
You must earn your own livelihood. You may 
do that in Virginia as conveniently as here. 
Nothing will be easier than to find employment 
as an instructer. I will write and recommend 
you to some of the first families; after they are 
acquainted with you, no recommendation will 
be necessary. My parents will make the com- 
panion of their son as welcome as a relative. 
We have warm hearts for our friends, George, 
and some lovely girls too, that will, I hope, 
make your heart warm. 

“ Were you with these, my friend, you’d soon forget 
The pale, unripened beauties of the North.” ’ 

‘ I always understood that bloom and bril- 
liancy of complexion, were on the side of our 
northern beauties,’ said George. 

‘ But you will find, according to the quotation 
I have just made, and indeed from the whole 
speech of the old Numidian Chief, that such a 
conclusion must be erroneous. You are an 
excellent critic on facts, and if you think Addi- 
son committed a blunder in placing his u glow- 
ing dames” beneath a vertical sun, you ought 
to expose him. This you may have an oppor- 
tunity of doing if you will only go with me. 
15 


170 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


Yirginia is sufficiently far to the southward to 
commence your observations. Will you go ?’ 

‘ In the course of a year, perhaps ; — if you 
still desire it,’ replied George. 

Robert did continue to desire it, and in less 
than a twelvemonth, George Torrey found him- 
self domesticated in the family of Judge Si- 
monds, one of the most distinguished men of 
Yirginia. George had anticipated much plea- 
sure as well as improvement from the conversa- 
tion of the old Judge, whom his son had repre- 
sented as very eloquent, and intelligent, and 
communicative. His mother too, in the opinion 
of Robert, was the very best woman in the 
world. He had said but little of his sister — very 
little, — never had shown George any of her let- 
ters, nor endeavoured to excite his curiosity 
about her. George knew, to be sure, that Rob- 
ter had a sister Delia, and he thought she had a 
very pretty name for a pastoral poem, and that 
was all he had thought of her till he was in- 
troduced to her. But he soon had many other 
thoughts. If there is a young man who has lov- 
ed, tenderly and truly , and loved too, one who he 
fancied would think herself above his sphere — 
loved in doubt and almost in despair, he will 
very easily divine the meditations of my hero. 
He will know why George trembled to meet 
Delia, and sighed to leave her ; why his pulse 
quickened at her name, and why his heart and 
his brain throbbed when any other man ap- 
proached her. Why he watched for her smile 
as though it were a law to guide him ; and why 


THE POOR SCHOLAR. 


171 


every word she spoke he considered important, 
and worth treasuring. 

And if there be a beautiful young lady, who 
has seen she was beloved by a man of worth, 
of mind, intelligence and refinement, — one 
whom she was satisfied would ever be to her 
that kind, constant, judicious friend, which wo- 
man so much needs to guide and support her 
through ‘ this world’s rough wilderness if she 
has felt gratitude for her lover’s preference of 
her, and esteem for his character, increasing 
with every interview ; if she has blushed to 
name him, trembled lest her partiality should be 
suspected, — watched for his coming, and yet 
faltered while attempting to welcome him, she 
may be sure her sensations have been very sim- 
ilar to those felt by Delia Simonds, after a few 
months acquaintance with George Torrey. 

Why cannot reason and education free the 
mind from the dominion of prejudice ? Rob- 
ert Simonds knew the worth and talents of 
George Torrey, and he loved him like a broth- 
er. To have him marry Delia, had long been 
his favorite wish. He saw their mutual affec- 
tion, therefore, with joy, and his favorable re- 
presentations had induced Judge Simonds to 
treat the young New-Englander with a par- 
tiality that was, at least, flattering. 

George had been permitted to hope, and but 
one circumstance prevented Robert from ac- 
knowledging, with pride, the favored of his sis- 
ter. Some of the young Southern gentlemen 
had doubted the courage of the Yankee, doubt- 
ed whether he would have the spirit to resent 


172 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


an insult like a gentleman, to accept a chal- 
lenge if sent him, and these doubts had reached 
the ears of Robert. He did not mention them 
to George ; he knew his principles on the sub- 
ject, and he perfectly agreed with him that to 
tight a duel, when not to fight was considered 
a disgrace, was no test of courage, but rather 
a proof of moral cowardice. But reasoning 
and feeling are very different things. Robert 
did feel sensitive on this point ; he did wish to 
have the fame of George established, have 
him deemed a man of honor, — (That honor 
which may be claimed by the veriest villain on 
earth, if he only is a good shot and has killed 
his adversary.) 

There was in the neighbourhood a gentleman, 
so styled, who had offered himself to Delia Si- 
monds, and been rejected. This circumstance 
created no surprise with those who were ac- 
quainted with the parties, for Arnold Dixon was 
very ugly in person, and disagreeable in man- 
ners, such a being as no lady could love, and 
Miss Simonds would never marry for riches. 
But riches, especially if joined with a certain 
assurance, will often keep a man in a station 
to which neither his mind or morals entitle him. 

Arnold Dixon was thus by sufferance allow- 
ed to mingle in good society ; yet he knew he 
was disliked, indeed, detested by the ladies, 
and he grew cross, and envious of every gen- 
tleman younger, or handsomer than himself. 
George Torrey especially he hated, and it was 
from him that the insinuations against the 
character of the Yankee mostly originated 


THE POOR SCHOLAR. 


173 


Robert Simonds despised Dixon, and in- 
tended to have no communication with him ; 
but they happened to meet one day at a dinner 
party, and Dixon, when warmed with wine, 
threw out reflections against the northern peo- 
ple, mingled with such innuendoes against 
George Torrey, that Robert’s blood was up in 
a moment, and he repelled the charges with 
such terms of scorn, as provoked his adver- 
sary to fresh accusations, till finally the com- 
pany interposed, and insisted that the affair 
should be postponed to a more fitting time and 
place. 

Burning with indignation against Dixon, and 
yet angry with himself for snffering the low 
malice of such a man to disturb him, Robert 
Simonds retired from the party. He knew 
that, according to the code of honor, some ex- 
pressions Dixon had used, must be considered 
too offensive to be borne by an honorable man ; 
that a challenge was expected to ensue ; and 
since the affair must proceed, he thought he 
would turn it to the best account possible. 
He argued that if George Torrey would con- 
sent to be his second, it would in a great meas- 
ure establish his reputation, because he would 
be found to act with decision and spirit, as he 
always did in the prosecution of any plan he 
thought sanctioned by principle. In short, he 
knew George was possessed of that daring, de- 
termined courage, that would, at the call of 
his country, or in defence of freedom, have 
prompted him to solicit the post of danger, to 
stand in the c imminent, deadly breach,’ or lead 
15 * 


174 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


the forlorn hope. But he knew, also, that 
George regarded duelling and its laws with 
abhorrence and contempt ; that he thought it 
degrading to a civilized man, and horrible for a 
Christian, to engage or be concerned in an 
affair of — murder. 

i And yet,’ said Robert to himself, < he cannot, 
under all the circumstances, refuse to be my 
second in this affair, and that will satisfy the 
world of his courage. 0, if his firmness of 
mind was only known, his courage would nev- 
er be doubted.’ 

I You intend to challenge Dixon ?’ said 
George Torrey, after he had listened to his 
friend’s story. 

I I do — I must. You smile, and I know 
your opinion, and I know it is right, — but we 
must, while we live in the world, be guided by 
the customs of society. Who can endure the 
u dread laugh” of derision, that among us fol- 
lows the man, who is pointed at as a coward ? 
I cannot, I will not, let the consequences be 
what they may, I shall challenge Dixon. I 
know he is a mean villain, — I despise him ; 
and yet I shall give him a chance to acquire 
honor to himself by killing me. I shall do 
this in obedience to custom, — to a custom that 
I condemn, and wish was annihilated, — But I 
shall follow it notwithstanding. Will you, 
George, be my second ?’ 

The discussion that followed cannot be giv- 
en at length, but the conclusion was, that 
George Torrey, finding he could not reason 
his friend out of the belief that there existed 


THE POOR SCHOLAR. 


175 


no necessity for the duel, determined to take 
the quarrel and the danger on himself. 

‘ If,’ said George, 4 this affair cannot be 
overlooked without incurring disgrace, I will 
send the challenge. The matter properly be- 
longs to me. It was my section of the coun- 
try that was vilified ; it was me he intended to 
insult. You generously defended me at the 
table when I was absent ; but that is no reason 
why you should fight for me when I am pres- 
ent. I repeat it, — if there must be a challenge 
I will send it, and you may act as my second.’ 

This arrangement was finally adopted. Ro- 
bert felt some compunctious visitings of con- 
science while the challenge was penning ; but 
he was so anxious to have his friend, his fu- 
ture brother, considered a man of honor, that 
he felt glad the affair was to be so decided. 
He knew George was an excellent marksman, 
and cool in spirit, and had the perfect com- 
mand of his muscles. Dixon too, was expert 
at shooting, but he was often intoxicated either 
with passion or liquor, and — who can answer 
for the thoughts of his heart when under the 
dominion of violent prejudice ? thousands have 
been as culpable as was Robert Simonds, when 
he eagerly anticipated seeing Arnold Dixon 
weltering in his blood, slain by the hand of 
George Torrey. 

What did George Torrey anticipate ? He 
did not dare reflect on all the consequences 
that might be the result of this rash affair. He 
thought it his duty to send the challenge and 
meet the foe, rather than permit Robert to 


176 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


fight. But he hoped the matter would be ac- 
commodated ; that Dixon would decline, as he 
might, without the imputation of cowardice, by 
alleging that he had not intended to insult the 
party who challenged. And then George flat- 
tered himself a little discussion would satisfy 
all parties. 

But George was disappointed ; for Dixon 
not only accepted his invitation to 4 meet him, 
&c. on the ensuing morning,’ but he exultingly 
added, that he wished to have the affair de- 
cided immediately ; that he had a friend with 
him, and they would be on the spot in half an 
hour, where 4 all preliminaries, Stc. might be 
easily settled.’ 

4 He is drunk,’ said Robert, his eyes flash- 
ing with joy ; 4 your victory is secure.’ 

4 My escape may be more probable,’ replied 
George. 4 1 will meet him, and stand his shot 
as your code of honor directs ; but I will not 
return his fire. I risk my own life to satisfy 
what I consider a wicked prejudice ; but I will 
not risk having the blood of a human being 
upon my conscience.’ 

The two friends proceeded, arm in arm, to- 
wards the place of appointment. They walk- 
ed in silence, both wrapped in different, but 
painful reflections. They had nearly reached 
the spot, when George, pressing the arm of 
his friend, said in a low, but distinct tone — 
4 Robert, if I fall, say to Delia — ’ 

4 You will not fall, you shall not,’ interrupt- 
ed the other, impetuously. 4 George, I fear I 
have done wrong in this business — I have been 


THE POOR SCHOLAR. 


177 


too sensitive, too hasty. If you are injured, 
I shall never forgive myself. But you shall 
stand only one shot ; if, when Dixon finds you 
are determined not to return his fire, he does 
not then feel satisfied, I will fight him, and I 
will return his fire. Do not give me any fare- 
well messages, I cannot hear such melancholy 
things.’ 

They reached the spot ; an accommodation 
was proposed to Dixon, if he would disclaim 
the intention of insulting George ; but this he 
would not do, and he ended with some sneer- 
ing remarks about the Yankees that made 
Robert’s blood boil, but which, ! had it not been 
for the feelings of his friend, George would no 
more have heeded than the idle wind. 

The ground was measured, and they took 
their stations. 

1 You can kill him George,’ whispered Rob- 
ert Simonds. 

‘ I shall not attempt it,’ replied George. ‘ I 
am not seeking revenge.’ 

‘ But you ought to endeavour to preserve 
your own life.’ 

4 Then I ought not to have come here. But 
this is idle now. Give the word.’ 

The word was given — Dixon fired — and 
George Torrey fell. Robert sprung to him, 
raised him — a stream of blood gushed from his 
right side. 4 It is all over,’ said George faint- 
ly, as he recovered a little from the first shock. 

I am dying. I must leave the world just as it 
begins to smile upon me. I must leave Delia 
and you. O ! I have lately dreamed of great 


178 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


things — I have thought that, blessed with De- 
lia’s love and your friendship, I should use such 
exertions — I should be so indefatigable, that 
success would be mine. But it is all over — I 
must die before I have done anything — I must 
die and be forgotten — Die as the fool dieth.’ 

‘ 0 ! George, George,’ said Robert, with 
tears flowing fast down his cheeks — ‘ What 
shall I do ? How shall I comfort Delia ? TVhy 
did I allow you to send the challenge ?’ 

George attempted to reply, but the effort 
overcame him, and they thought him dying. 
But he revived again, and was conveyed to 
the house of Judge Simonds. He lingered 
twelve hours, and during most of the time, was 
able to converse. 

George Torrey was laid in the family vault 
of Judge Simonds, and before the year had ex- 
pired, Delia slept beside her lover. Robert 
Simonds, agitated with grief for the loss of his 
friend, and indignation against Dixon, could 
hardly be said to be in possession of his reason, 
when, three days after the burial of George, 
he challenged his murderer to meet him. Dix- 
on was so elated with his success over poor 
George, that he exultingly accepted the chal- 
lenge of Robert. They met ; and at the first 
discharge, Dixon was shot through the heart. 

Robert Simonds still lives, but he is a mel- 
ancholy, misanthropic being. Alone in the 
world, and continually brooding over the mem- 
ory of those dear friends he accuses himself 
of destroying. 


THE SPRINGS. 



* She had marked 

The s>!ent youth, and with a beauty’s eye 
Knew vreh she was beloved ; and though her light 
And bounding spirit still was wild and gay, 

And sporting in the revel, yet her hours 
Of solitude were visited by him 
Who looked with such deep passion.’ 

Percivai.. 

It was in July, 1818 , that Emily Woodworth 
made her debut at Saratoga. She came ac- 
companied by her guardian, Mr. Chapman, and 
his wife. Mrs. Chapman was a dyspeptic, ner- 
vous and very particular lady. In her youth 
she had been a celebrated beauty, and still felt 
all that thirst for personal admiration which 
had once been so lavishly bestowed upon her 
charms. But alas ! for the woman who has 
passed her tenth lustre and yet has no claim to 
the attentions of society, save what personal 
beauty imparts. Such women have always a 
horror of being thought at all acquainted with 
Time — that unfashionable old gentleman is en- 
tirely excluded from their conversation, and any 
allusion to him, they deem, in their presence, 
impertinent. It was always with a look which 
seemed intended to petrify the speaker, that 


380 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


Mrs. Chapman heard her increasing infirmi- 
ties attributed to increasing years ; she wished 
to be thought young, and yet she had neither 
health nor inclination for the gayeties of youth ; 
and so she eagerly condemned all pleasures in 
which she could not participate, as vain, frivo- 
lous or unfashionable. In short she was al- 
ways of the opinion that those amusements, 
which were inconvenient or unsuitable for her, 
were either very vulgar or very sinful. 

Mr. Chapman was an industrious mechanic, 
a carpenter by trade ; but he had an inventive 
genius, and a persevering temper ; and had 
generally succeeded in his plans and projects, 
till finally he had become not only the archi- 
tect, but proprietor of several mills and one 
large cotton manufactory ; and partly by labor, 
partly by lucky speculation, had accumulated 
a large fortune. He was a thorough Yankee, 
shrewd, sensible and somewhat sarcastic ; at 
least his ready repartees, and the knowledge of 
characters and circumstances they frequently 
implied, made his wit often feared by those who 
felt conscious of follies or faults they did not 
wish exposed. Yet he was a good natures 
man, as the uniform forbearance, and even pity 
with which he listened to the peevishness ana 
complaints of his wife, and his constant kind-, 
ness in his own family, and the cordial civility 
with which he treated his friends, except wheiv 
an occasion for a good joke occurred, sufficient- 
ly testified. 

Emily Woodworth — but I will not introduce 
her formally, by telling her height, or describ- 


THE SPRINGS. 


191 


ing her features, or noting the color of her 
complexion, eyes, lips and hair. Take a pen, 
fair reader, look in the mirror, and then try 
the sketch yourself. But be sure and make 
Emily as handsome as your beau ideal of fe- 
male loveliness, or I shall in future draw my 
own heroines. And yet it is a task in which 
few succeed. The artist, proud of being com- 
plimented with possessing the skill of a Van- 
dike in delineating the countenances of men, 
will find it extremely difficult, if not impossible, 
to paint the likeness of a beautiful woman. 
To be successful he must embody sense, spirit 
and modesty in that just proportion which shall 
give the idea of dignity as well as delicacy to 
features where passion has left no record ; and 
he must impart meaning and expression to the 
( smoothness and sheen’ of a face where nei- 
ther the ambition of pride or energy of thought 
have stamped any predominating faculty of 
soul. This task can only be accomplished by 
one skilled in reading the heart as well as 
drawingthe head. There are but few descrip- 
tions of women, even in our best poets and 
novelists, that do justice to the female cha- 
racter. The mistake is that mere physical 
beauty, harmony of features and a fair com- 
plexion, are generally represented as entitling 
their possessor to the appellation of amiable, 
interesting, elegant, &c. — it is the counte- 
nance which is supposed to give a tone to the 
mind, not that the mind inspires the counte- 
nance. Such a mistake would never be made 
by an artist who was painting men. And while 
Id 


182 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


such a mistake is cherished, the portraits of 
women will never he well executed. They 
will never bear the impress o i' mind. 

Milton was a little skeptical on the score of 
female understanding, and hardly willing to 
allow the sex that equality of reason which is 
now pretty generally and generously too, ac- 
knowledged by all civilized men ; but he may 
be pardoned, considering he lived in an age 
so ignorant that even his own peerless genius, 
was neglected or contemned, (might it not be 
a retribution for the injustice he did the ladies.) 
But notwithstanding the prejudice which the 
bard of Paradise sometimes displayed, he has 
left us the most charming description, of the 
effect which a lovely, virtuous and intelligent 
woman has over the minds of men, that is to 
be found in the English language. 

‘ Yet when I approach 

Her loveliness, so absolute she seems 
And in herself complete, so well to know 
Her own, that what she wills to do or say, 

Seems wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best ; 

All higher knowledge in her presence falls. 

Degraded wisdom in discourse with her 
Loses discountenanced, and like folly shows ; 
Authority and reason on her wait, 

As one intended first, not after made 
Occasionally ; and to consummate all, 

Greatness of mind , and nobleness their seat 
Build in her loveliest, and create an awe 
About her, as a guard angelic placed.’ 


What a lovely picture ! and true — but when 
was the conception of the poet ever embodied 
by the painter ? And there is also another 
sweet description, in Shakspeare, of a woman, 
that I have often wished to see transferred to 
canvass — 


THE SPRINGS. 


193 


‘ A maiden never bold, 

Of spirit so still and quiet, that her motion 
Blushed at herself. ’ 

Who does not recognise in that sketch of 
Desdemona, the being of soul — the beautiful, 
modest, intelligent and heroic girl — who pre- 
ferred her lover only for his estimable qualities 
of character — 

‘ 1 saw Othello’s visage in his mind.’ 

Emily Woodworth did not exactly resemble 
either of these portraits. She had not the 
majestic loveliness of Milton’s Eve, nor all 
that tender yet ardent enthusiasm which we 
may imagine characterized the victim bride of 
the Moor. She had more vivacity than either. 
But there was usually a covert humor in her 
glance which checked the freedom her gayety 
would otherwise have inspired. A lover would 
have been sadly perplexed to decide whether 
the sweet smile that so often dimpled her cheek 
was for him or at him. In short I can think 
of no heroine that Emily so much resembled 
as Ellen Douglas ; especially in that scene 
where Fitz James so gallantly volunteered to 
row her fairy bark, when 

‘ The maid with smile, suppressed and sly, 

The task unwonted saw him try.’ 

But Emily Woodworth had a guardian — Was 
she rich ? No matter. The gentleman who 
is prompted to make the inquiry would never 
have deserved her, and certainly never have 
obtained her. 

1 We will take lodgings half a mile, at least, 
from the Springs,’ said Mrs. Chapman to her 


134 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


husband, as their carriage passed in sight of 
the crowd assembled around the Congress 
fountain. ‘ I am sure,’ she contir-ued as her 
eye rested on the castle like fabric of Con- 
gress Hall, at that time the largest and far the 
most splendid building in the village, ‘ I am 
sure, the noise and bustle of that house must 
be quite shocking to persons who have been 
accustomed to the regular, religious and lit- 
erary society of Connecticut.’ 

‘ I was intending to board at Union Hall,’ 
replied Mr. Chapman. c We must not expect 
it will seem exactly as quiet and regular as our 
own home, but it will be more convenient for 
us than remote lodgings. You, Mrs. Chapman, 
intend to drink the waters ; I came to see the 
folks, and Emily the fashions, and I think that 
Union house there, will be just the thing for 
our accommodation. Congress Hall I should 
like, only it looks as if it would draw a little too 
largely on my purse.’ 

c Do you know what kind of company they 
have at the Union Hall ?’ inquired Mrs. Chap- 
man, in a querulous tone. ‘ I should like to 
be with civil, well-bred people, not among 
the thoughtless and fantastic, who have balls 
every other evening. I wish we could go where 
our own friends and acquaintances resort. 
The Reverend Mr. Briley and his lady you 
know started a few days before us ; and then 
Colonel Eastman and his two daughters are 
here, and Squire Ray and his wife, and the 
widow Post.’ — 

( Yes, yes — there’s fools enough from Con- 


THE SPRINGS. 


185 


necticut here as well as we,’ interrupted Mr. 
Chapman hastily — and then after a short pause, 
during which his good natured countenance 
exhibited a little embarrassment or vexation, 
such as we may suppose would naturally arise 
in the mind of a thorough man of business who 
felt himself, for the first time in his life, in pur- 
suit of that pleasure which has neither definite 
name nor aim, but must be found jostling 
among a crowd of strangers in a strange place, 
he added, — ‘ I think, Mrs. Chapman, we have 
a pretty good chance of seeing Yankees at 
home ; certainly we see our friends often 
enough there. Now I should like to be ac- 
quainted with some of the southern people, 
and I have been told that Union Hall was fre- 
quented mostly by gentlemen from that part ot 
the country. Perhaps I may learn something 
about the management of cotton that will be 
of advantage to me in the way of my business ; 
and so, if you please, we will alight here and 
stay a few days at least,’ — and he stepped 
from his carriage, while a waiter instantly at- 
tended to ask his commands. Mrs. Chapman 
was really fatigued, they had driven a long 
stage that morning, it was almost twelve, and 
so she tacitly assented to her husband’s pro- 
position. 

They were soon installed in a pleasant 
apartment, the windows commanding a view 
of Congress Hall, with its stately pillars and 
airy portico, beneath which ladies were prome- 
nading, and gentlemen sauntering, both often 
pausing in their walk, as if charmed by the 
16 * 


186 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


sweet music that came at intervals from the 
apartment of some piano-loving votary within. 

Those who have visited Saratoga, and who 
has not ? know that the scenery around the 
village makes no part of the attractions to that 
celebrated place. It is the Springs, and the 
crowd that sip the mineral waters that are the 
objects of curiosity. Mrs. Chapman was not 
much mistaken when, a few days after her ar- 
rival, she declared it was by nature the most 
disagreeable spot she ever saw. The street, 
she remarked, was always dirt or dust, (this 
was ten years since, perhaps she would now 
report differently,) and if one wished to walk 
out, there was nothing to be seen in any direc- 
tion but a low sunken marsh that appeared as 
if it had never been drained since the deluge 
And then for the ornament of the grounds, 
there was only stunted firs and other ever- 
greens all looking as withered, crooked or 
sickly, as if they were languishing under the 
curse of some sibyl. 

The contrast was indeed very striking be- 
tween Saratoga, and the pleasant walks on the 
banks of the Connecticut. There the turf is so 
smooth and green, and the flowers woo you at 
every step, and the broad beautiful trees throw 
their graceful branches abroad as if rejoicing, 
like a beauty surveying her image in a mirror, 
to see their shadow on the green sward beneath. 
And then there is the river, diffusing over the 
wide meadows on its banks, a fertility unsur- 
passed in our land ; and the fresh invigorating 
breezes from the pure waters and green hills, 


THE SPRINGS. 


187 


which, if they cannot restore the invalid to 
health, prevent the healthy from becoming in- 
valid. Who that has a taste for the beauties 
of a rich landscape, and a heart attuned to the 
music breathing from the lovely things of na- 
ture, but would prefer a ramble on the banks 
of the Connecticut to a promenade beneath the 
portico of Congress Hall, where fashion and 
frivolity gather their votaries, and more come 
do have their dresses admired than to have 
their diseases healed ? 

It must however be acknowledged, that much 
of Mrs. Chapman’s disgust and disappoint- 
ment arose from the circumstance of finding 
herself but an unit among the collection of 
human beings assembled around the Springs. 
She would have indignantly repelled the idea 
that selfishness was always her predominating 
feeling, yet she never witnessed an exhibition 
of any kind, or listened to a conversation, with- 
out an immediate reference, in her own mind, 
to the effect they had, or might have on her- 
self — her convenience, happiness or impor- 
tance. 

She had, at an expense that her husband, in- 
dulgent as he was, called highly extravagant, 
prepared for her own appearance at the springs 
in a manner which she expected would secure 
her instant notice. But, alas! she saw bonnets 
there vastly richer than hers, and shawls that 
made her sick with envy, and gowns with laces, 
flounces and trimmings, which she decided 
were absolutely wicked — only because they ex- 
ceeded the standard of her own apparel. 


18S 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


6 It is an odious place here,’ said Mrs. Chap- 
man to her husband, as he entered the room 
where she and Emily were sitting, and inquir- 
ed if they were ready to accompany him to drink 
Ihe waters. ‘ These southern ladies are so 
stiff and formal, and as silent as though they 
had always been accustomed to have their talk- 
ing as well as work done by the poor slaves. 
I shall not join them in the drawing room again, 
nor shall I go to the Springs this morning. 
There is nothing worth seeing, and I. can have 
the water brought here to my chamber.’ 

6 But you know, wife, that we came to sec 
the ways of the world, and at any rate I mean 
to look about me while I stay. We might just 
as well keep at home as confine ourselves to 
our own apartments while here.’ 

c Do you like the society of these Southern- 
ers ?’ demanded Mrs. Chapman. 

1 Why, yes, pretty well, only I see the cotton 
growers give themselves some important airs ; 
but that is because they do not yet understand 
about cotton manufacturing. I have endeavour- 
ed to introduce the subject as often as possible, 
for I hope the mutual benefit we derive from 
each other will be the means of establishing a 
confidence between us. However, I confess 
they are rather reserved.’ 

‘ Reserved, do you call it,’ returned Mrs. 
Chapman, her countenance glowing with in- 
dignation. ‘ I do not pretend to know the 
character of the men, but the women are ab- 
solutely scornful. It was only yesterday I 
made some inquiries of a lady respecting her 


THE SPRINGS. 


189 


headdress, and she answered me very rudely 
But I hope I mortified her, for I soon after re- 
marked, when her slave came to wait upon her, 
that I would not, for the universe, have a 
negro wench tagging after me.’ 

‘ What do you think of your southern sisters, 
Emily ?’ inquired Mr. Chapman, turning to his 
ward. 

c I think, sir,’ answered the smiling girl, ‘that 
they exhibit about the same qualities of the 
heart and mind our northern ladies would if 
placed in a similar situation. The difference 
of customs, and customs must vary with cli- 
mate, and education, has made us to differ. 
They complain of their servants , and we of oui 
help. They talk of selling the blacks because 
of bad behavior, and we of turning away our 
whites for similar faults. It is true in a circle 
of Yankee women, there would be more at- 
tempts at literary conversation, more books 
mentioned and quotations — misapplied; but 
then these ladies here have a kind of quietness 
in their manner, a natural dignity that makes the 
knowledge they do possess, appear very grace- 
ful ; and in canvassing fashions, they certainly 
have the advantage of us. They do not seem 
to feel it necessary to make the expense of a 
thing an object of much conversation. Their 
remarks are, therefore, more general, and con- 
sequently do not appear so trifling as when 
every yard of ribbon or lace on a dress is 
measured, and the exact cost computed, as is 
frequently the case among us in discussions on 
the reigning modes. Do not think I advocate 


190 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


thoughtless extravagance ; I only believe we 
may practice economy at home, without con- 
tinually puffing ourselves for our management 
when abroad.’ 

6 Then you do not feel disgusted with the so- 
ciety here, nor intend to keep your chamber,’ 
said Mr. Chapman. 

4 0, no, sir, no,’ replied Emily, eagerly. 

4 I have been highly amused with the new 
scene ; and I hope to reap some benefit, some 
improvement from the observations I cannot 
avoid making. I certainly feel much more in- 
terested for these southern ladies, more as if 
we are indeed of one country, than I should 
have done had we never met.’ 

4 That,’ replied Mr. Chapman, with such 
earnestness, such unaffected sincerity of man- 
ner, as almost made his plain, practical remarks 
appear like eloquence ; 4 That will, I trust, be 
usually the consequence when Americans have 
an opportunity of mingling together. And if 
these mineral waters are of little benefit in the 
restoration of health — I, for one, think their 
medicinal virtues are vastly overrated ; yet they 
are of importance in promoting an intercourse, 
and thus strengthening the harmony between 
the different sections of our vast country. Peo- 
ple from every quarter, will here meet and min- 
gle, and become acquainted ; prejudices will 
be, in part, overcome, and attachments formed, 
till we shall feel we have friends, and therefore 
a personal interest in the prosperity of every 
state in our Union.’ 

4 You and Emily may like the place and the 


THE SPRINGS. 


191 


people too, if you choose, but I detest both ;’ 
said Mrs. Chapman. 

4 Why should you, my dear, form an opinion 
so different from Emily on this subject ?’ ask- 
ed her husband. 

4 The ladies are all partial to Emily,’ replied 
the wife, peevishly. 4 They converse with her 
freely, but they avoid me.’ 

4 You probably treat them coldly, and take 
no pains to remove the prejudices they may 
have formed against the Yankee women.’ 

4 I care nothing for their prejudices, Mr. 
Chapman. I shall take no pains to gain the 
favor of those who are guilty of the monstrous 
wickedness of holding their fellow creatures in 
slavery. It is a sin in which I would not par- 
take for all the wealth of the Indies !’ 

4 The slave system is wrong, I feel as well as 
you, and an unfortunate thing for the peace and 
prosperity of our country,’ said Mr. Chapman, 
seriously. 4 Yet we must not imagine, that 
because in New England we have no slaves, 
we are guilty of no sins. But where are those 
lines you showed me the other day, Emily ? 
in Burns, I think.’ 

Emily reached the book, and Mr. Chapman 
read, in a very exalted tone, to his wife : — 

‘ O ! wad some Power the giftie gie us, 

To see oursels as other see us, 

It wad frae monie a blunder free us 
An’ foolish notion ; 

What airs in gait and dress could lea’ us, 

And e’en devotion.’ 

There, that verse contains, in my opinion, a 
more excellent lesson on the necessity of self- 


192 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


examination and humility than many a labored 
sermon. And now, Mrs. Chapman, if you are 
not intending to go out this morning, Emily 
and I will walk to the Springs.’ 

Any person of reflection, who watches the 
movements of an assembly of Americans, col- 
lected even on their great festivals of rejoic- 
ing, will be convinced that the pursuit of mere 
amusements is incompatible with the feelings 
and habits of the people. They never appear 
to lay aside their cares, or give themselves up 
to the enjoyment of the present pleasure. 
They are not absorbed by the scene, show, 
or pastime ; they are remarking, reasoning, 
scheming. There is a restlessness in their 
movements, (a Yankee rarely sits still in his 
chair,) an eagerness in their tnquiries after 
news, a kind of impatience as if they felt in a 
hurry even when they know they have nothing 
to do. They are like travellers who are look- 
ing forward with earnestness to the next stage 
in their journey, and feel quite unprepared to 
rest or enjoy themselves by the way. 

But to see this locomotive trait, in the Amer- 
ican character, in full activity, go to Sara- 
toga. 

Those ladies and gentlemen who assemble 
there to pass a few weeks in uninterrupted 
pleasure, display but little of that contented 
satisfaction which betokens happiness. They 
manifest more uneasiness than do the valetudi- 
narians, because the latter think there is a ne- 
cessity, a reason for their continuance at the 
Springs. But the healthy ones are in a con- 


THE SPRINGS. 


193 


stant state of excitement to find pleasure which 
prevents them from ever enjoying it. They 
are therefore restless, and wishing for a change 
of weather or a change of company, or to visit 
othert places, or have the season over that they 
may return home. 

‘ I don’t think, Emily,’ said Mr. Chapman, 
as they crossed the street, and jostled their way 
amid the throng that were hastening to the 
fountain , 1 though I will not find fault with every 
thing I see, as my wife does, yet I don’t think 
those gentlemen and ladies there are so happy 
as the persons I left at work in my factory. 
They do not look half as cheerful and gay. 
Indeed, the observations I have made, have 
convinced me that employment, some kind of 
business, is absolutely necessary to make men, 
or at least our citizens, happy and respectable. 
This trifling away of time when there is so 
much to be done, so many improvements ne- 
cessary in our country, is inconsistent with that 
principle of being useful, which every repub- 
lican ought to cherish. Now I never pass 
through a place without looking out the good 
building spots, nor do I see a stream of water 
without thinking whether it has a good site 
for a mill, or factory, or something of the sort. 
But here, bless me, ’tis all hurry scurry round 
to gaze at the wonders, without, I fear, think- 
ing at all. Away they go to lake George, and 
Tlconderoga, and perhaps to Niagara, and 
then to their billiard tables, bails and parties ; 
and after all, they look fatigued and miserably 
disappointed. I meet with but few that pre- 
17 


194 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


tend to take much satisfaction in this kind of 
life, they only say it is necessary as a relaxation 
— but 1 guess they will, the most of them, be 
glad when they are safe at home again. I cer- 
tainly shall for one. Have you, Emily, seen an 
object here that will make you regret leaving 
Saratoga ?’ 

The question was asked at a most unlucky 
moment, for Emily, on looking up to answer 
her guardian, beheld, standing almost directly 
before her, his dark, penetrating eyes fastened 
on her face with an expression of admiration 
that seemed to send his soul in the glance, a 
young man whom she had for several preceding 
days perceived paying her the homage of un- 
ceasing, yet respectful, attention, whenever 
she dared note him at all. 

Emijy Woodworth had never loved, never 
seen the man she thought she could love, and 
she did not think of loving the stranger ; — she 
only thought that he resembled her brother 
who had died at college — that dear and only 
brother for whom she had shed so many tears — 
and she wished the stranger was her brother. 
There was no harm in such a wish, though it 
was a little romantic. But now his presence 
joined with her guardian’s abrupt question to 
embarrass her excessively. She drew her veil 
as closely over her face as ever did a Turkish 
lady, and declining to taste the waters, stood 
with her eyes fixed on the fountain, and watch- 
ed, with an apparently absorbing interest, the 
lntle boys that then officiated to draw up the 
and airy liquid which was eagerly 


THE SPRINGS. 


196 


drank by the fashionable — for fashion’s sake. 
She did not turn her head, though she knew 
the young stranger was beside her and expect- 
ed he was watching for an opportunity to gain 
ner attention. 

To a novelist the introduction of these young 
people would be an easy matter. Emily would 
only have to drop her handkerchief, which 
the stranger might pick up and present with a 
graceful bow, that she must repay with a sweet 
smile, and then some tender exclamation, or 
abrupt compliment from him, and their destiny 
to ‘ live and love forever,’ would be at once 
palpable to every reader. 

But in this matter of fact sketch, no such 
lucky accident occurred, and so I shall have 
to write another page to tell the story. Emily 
did not drop her handkerchief, or meet with 
an incident of any kind that required the inter- 
ference of a stranger ; but clasping her guar- 
dian’s arm with more than her usual care, she 
walked home without betraying any anxiety to 
know whether she was followed or observed. 

c You look pale and fatigued, Emily,’ said 
Mrs. Chapman, as the former threw aside her 
bonnet. ‘ Do my love sit down here by the 
window.’ 

Emily took the seat, but a deep flush in- 
stantly passed over her cheek as her eye 
caught some object in the street before her, 
and she retired to her own apartment saying 
she was quite well, while Mr. Chapman obser- 
ved he never saw her look better. On de- 
scending to dinner, which Mrs. Chapman de- 


196 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


dined joining, Emily again saw standing in a 
position that commanded a view of the door at 
which the ladies entered, the same young, 
dark-eyed stranger. He did not, however, 
offer to approach her ; and whether he dined 
there or not, it was impossible for her to say — 
she never once looked towards the place he 
must have occupied. 

She was apparently engrossed in listening 
to the conversation of two gentlemen who sat 
opposite to her. Their whole discourse might 
be comprised in this sentiment, — ‘ that rice 
was excellent food — that rice was healthy 
food — that rice ought to be a constant dish at 
every man’s table,’ and ‘ that it was wonderful 
the northern people did not make more account 
of rice. 1 

‘ 1 have made a very valuable acquaintance, 
I guess,’ said Mr. Chapman, as he entered, at 
a late hour, his wife’s apartment. 4 Judge 
Daggett, with whose character you know I am 
acquainted, asked leave to introduce a gentle- 
man who, he said, wished to be acquainted 
with me. It was Mr. Henry Sinclair, from 
North Carolina ; he is rather young, but the 
most sensible and intelligent man 1 have met 
at Saratoga. I have been conversing with 
him all the afternoon, and he has told me the 
whole method of cultivating cotton, and many 
other things that the planters have not been 
very free to talk about. I find too, that he 
thinks very highly of our northern country, and 
would like to see Connecticut. Indeed, he 
says he intends visiting that State before re- 


THE SPRINGS. 


197 


turning home ; and so I have invited him to 
come to our village and see my cotton factory. 
I should like, Mrs. Chapman, to introduce him 
to you and Emily while we are here, and that 
may induce him more willingly to call on us 
should he go to Connecticut.’ 

Mrs. Chapman eagerly assented. She fan- 
cied she should appear to excellent advantage 
when there was not a crowd of ladies around ; 
and she never once dreamed that the gay, and, 
as she thought her, the childish Emily, would 
attract the notice of a man who conversed so 
sensibly and seriously with her husband about 
plantations and manufactories, &c. 

During Mr. Chapman’s absence in quest of 
his new friend, Emily Woodworth changed 
her seat more than once — even Mrs. Chap- 
man, occupied as she was with the idea of her 
own importance, observed that something agi- 
tated the girl, and carelessly inquired what 
disturbed her. But Emily, with her usual 
arch smile, assured her she was not disturbed — 
and it is not known to this day whether a sus- 
picion, that the dark-eyed cavalier was the 
person her guardian would introduce, ever en- 
tered her mind. 

Mrs. Chapman was much pleased with Mr. 
Sinclair, and remarked several times after he 
had gone, that he was the handsomest and 
most accomplished southern man she had 
seen. ‘ I think him,’ said she, { a perfect gen- 
tleman, and really hope he will come to our 
village and visit us.’ 


17 * 


193 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


( I presume he will come to our village,’ said 
Mr. Chapman, looking at Emily with a most 
provoking glance of intelligence ; * but wheth- 
er, Mrs. Chapman, he will visit you and I, is, 
I think, very doubtful.’ 

‘ Pray, who will he visit then ? He said he 
had no acquaintances there,’ exclaimed Mrs. 
Chapman. ‘ Perhaps Emily can guess,’ said 
Mr. Chapman. But Emily left the room im- 
mediately without attempting to guess. 

Henry Sinclair made, as he said, the tour 
of Connecticut. Certainly he tarried in that 
state several weeks, and was so delighted with 
the climate, scenery, society, &c. that he re- 
turned the next year, and the next — and then 
persuaded Emily to accompany him to North 
Carolina, where he introduced her to his friends 
as M r s. Sinclair. 

The domestic happiness of this amiable 
couple is often mentioned by Mr. Chapman, 
and he declares that, in his opinion, the best 
method of promoting harmony between the 
different sections of our Union would be to 
promote intermarriages among the inhabitants. 
‘ There is,’ he remarks in his humorous man- 
ner, ‘ there is, I find, more affinity between 
the youths and maidens of the North and 
South, than between cotton growers and cot- 
ton manufacturers.’ 


) 


PREJUDICES* 


* What hath come to thee ? in thy hollow eye 
And hueless cheek, and thine unquiet motions, 
Anger, and grief, and conscience seem at war 
To waste thee ? ’ Byrow. 


On one of those small level spots, that may 
be found as you toil up the steep road which, 
running from Brattleboro’ to Bennington, cros- 
ses the Green Mountain, there stood, in 1820, 
a little lone tenement inhabited by a woman 
whose name was Ranson. 

Mrs. Ranson had endured strange vicis- 
situdes of fortune, and it was reported her 
troubles had entirely changed her character — 
certain it was that she had for several years 
pursued a course of conduct so extraordinary 
as to excite either the wonder, pity, or censure 
of all her acquaintance. Many declared her 
singularities were affected to gain notoriety — 
these were women — others thought her de- 
ranged — these were mostly men — and a few 
benevolent people of both sexes urged the sor- 
rows of a broken and contrite spirit had induced 
her to relinquish the flattering but false world, 


200 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


and seek a refuge from its vexations in her sol- 
itary abode on the Hills. 

I can only give an abstract of Mrs. Ranson’s 
story ; those who regret its brevity, (if such old 
fashioned readers exist in this age of literary 
‘ shreds and patches,’) may easily, by the aid 
of a little imagination, invest these simple facts 
with all the complex circumstances, enchanting 
descriptions and interesting colloquies, of a 
long romance. I am half inclined to attempt 
the exploit myself. This short hand mode of 
authorship is but a poor way of managing, if 
one wishes to secure either profit or fame. 
To manufacture a two volumed novel, hardly 
requires more exertion of mind , than to write a 
good sketch. 

Isabelle Carrick was a native of the West 
Indies. Her mother died a few days after the 
girl’s birth, and her father when she was twelve 
years old ; but in the interim he had married a 
second wife, who bore him a boy. With that 
ill-judging partiality which may be termed in- 
justice of the most cruel kind, because i.t com- 
pletely baffles the law and often shrouds itself 
under pretexts that prevent the sufferer from 
receiving even sympathy, Mr. Carrick gave his 
whole property, which was very large, to his 
son ; only stipulating that Isabelle should be 
educated and supported by her brother till 
her marriage, and should she ever become a 
widow, she was entitled to an annuity of one 
hundred pounds a year. 

When the contents of the will became known, 
the maternal relations of Isabelle were highly 


PREJUDICES. 


20 ! 


incensed, and they demanded she should be 
given up to them. Her stepmother, who, it 
v ns believed, had influenced her husband’s 
will, very readily consented to relinquish all 
right over the portionless orphan ; by that 
means she was freed from the necessity of 
educating her. Isabelle, accordingly, passed 
into the family of her uncle Tolbert. Some dis- 
turbances soon after occurring among the slave 
population, rendered Mr. Tolbert’s situation at 
Jamaica unpleasant, and he determinedto leave 
the Island. His wife was an American, and 
that was probably the reason that induced him 
to remove to New York rather than return to 
England. Isabelle, now at the interesting age 
of sixteen, was such a beautiful girl that her 
uncle had no doubt of establishing her advan- 
tageously in a country where marriage was an 
affair of the heart and not merely a calculation 
of pecuniary advantages, even though it were 
known she was portionless. Yet Mr. Tolbeil 
did not intend thus to test the sincerity of those 
who professed to admire his niece. He had no 
children ; he had adopted the orphan and de- 
clared her his heir, and it is no wonder she 
was soon the star of the city. Many connois- 
seurs in female charms pronounced Isabelle 
Carrick to be perfect in loveliness. There is 
no standard, there can be none of personal 
beauty ; the feelings of the heart have more in- 
fluence than rules of taste in our estimation of 
the human face ; yet there are countenances so 
peculiarlyfascinating, that criticism and com- 
parison are out of the question. If the behold- 


202 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


er has a soul susceptible of those divine im- 
pressions of the beautiful which are among the 
distinguishing characteristics that prove man 
superior to his 1 brothers of the clod,’ he ac 
knowledges at once the interest of such a coun- 
tenance. No human eye ever regarded a rose, 
rainbow or star, and turned away disgusted ; 
and seldom do we find a person that can gaze 
on either with perfect indifference. Such 
apathy would argue a man’s mind more disa- 
greeable, if not as dangerous, as to have ‘ no 
music in his soul’ — which, according to Shak- 
speare, is one of the seven deadly sins. 

But Isabelle Carrick was never regarded 
with indifference. The men praised and ad- 
mired; the women praised too, as loudly as the 
men, but I fear there was a little envy, or at 
least, a little repining mingled in their feelings 
of admiration. What makes this suspicion pro- 
bable, I have been told that they always con- 
cluded their eulogy on her beauty by saying it 
was perfect, considered as a specimen of the 
West Indian style — the men never made a 
qualification in their panegyrics. 

1 1 think,’ said Miss Dutton, i that Isabelle’s 
cheek wants bloom. She has a fine, delicate 
complexion, and it contrasts sweetly with her 
profusion of curls, 

“ Whose glossy black to shame might bring 
The plumage of the raven’s wing.” 

Now tinge her cheek with a little u celestiaa 
rosy red,” and she would be in appearance, 
what you gentlemen esteem her, an angel ’ 


PREJUDICES. 


203 


< But you probably recollect,’ replied Edwin 
Cone, ‘ that the “ rosy red” to which you allude, 
was imparted by a blush, and Isabelle’s cheek 
wears that tinge at the least compliment or 
emotion — a tinge that may be considered u ce- 
lestial,” as it proceeds from delicacy of mind, 
from sentiment, and is not dependent on jocund 
health, and never needs the repairs of art.’ 

6 But then her eyes, Edwin. — Do you really 
admire such black eyes ? They seem too spirit- 
ed to please me. I know the Mahometans 
celebrate their dark eyed Houris, but I believe 
Christians usually connect the beautiful sky- 
color with the idea of angels’ eyes.’ 

Edwin Cone was very polite. He saw the 
blue eyes of the fair speaker beam with the 
expectation of a compliment. Could a gallant 
man refuse it ? With a bow and smile he de- 
clared it would be profane to compare angels’ 
eyes to aught save stars, and those were al- 
ways set in blue; and that the most charming 
description of woman’s orb of vision he ever 
saw, was — 

‘ She had an eye, 

As when the blue sky trembles through a cloud 
Of purest white.’ — 

The very next day, Isabelle Carrick learned 
that Edwin Cone disliked black eyes. But 
happily her heart was not at all interested in 
his decision. Had John Hanson made such a 
declaration, she would probably have felt very 
wretched. 

There is no subject on which the old and 
young differ in opinion so materially as on the 


204 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


qualities most likely to ensure happiness in the 
married state. The aged are swayed by inter- 
est, the youthful guided by feeling. Perhaps 
it would be difficult to decide which party are 
oftenest disappointed. Those matches are un- 
doubtedly the happiest, which have been con- 
tracted equally from affection and prudence ; 
— but heroines are not very apt to consider 
prudence necessary. At least, when Isabelle 
Garrick married JohnRanson, in opposition to 
the wishes of her uncle, she did not consult her 
interest — and that is to be imprudent — is it not ? 
An answer to that question, properly discus- 
sed, in all its bearings, would fill a volume. I 
wish some rationally moral philosopher, who 
has made that wayward thing, the human 
heart, his particular study, would write a trea- 
tise on the subject. 

Mr. Tolbert held true English aristocratic 
ideas of love and marriage. ‘ The faith of 
true lovers,’ he observed, ‘ was of no conse- 
quence, except “ to adorn a tale.” It was 
amusing to read of love in a novel, but to be- 
lieve in its reality, or that a particular fancy 
for the person was necessary to make men and 
women happy in marriage, was as absurd as 
to credit the stories of dragons and demons, 
knights and necromancers, exalted characters, 
and enchanted castles, apd all the materiel of 
the romances of chivalry, from which the un- 
reasonable ideas of love had been imbibed. 
The marriage most likely to ensure happiness 
to the contracting parties, must be founded, like 
any other bargain, on mutual interest ; some 


PREJUDICES. 


205 


substantial benefit must be conferred on each, 
by the union ; and then, the knowledge that 
their partnership was indissoluble, would in- 
duce them, if they had common sense, to treat 
each other with complaisance, which was all 
the felicity that ought to be expected.’ 

Isabelle Carrick had heard these sentiments 
of her uncle expressed a thousand times, and 
illustrated by many anecdotes of contented 
couples, who married for interest, and wretch- 
ed pairs, who wedded for fancy ; but she did 
not, it seems, profit much by such wise les- 
sons and lectures. She loved John Ranson, 
although her uncle charged the said John with 
being a poor man’s son, and, moreover, guilty 
of being obliged to earn his own livelihood, 
though he had, by his industry, and applica- 
tion, raised himself to the station of junior 
partner in a respectable mercantile establish- 
ment. Should such a plebeian be preferred 
before Edwin Cone, whose father, descended 
from a respectable English family, was pos- 
sessed of a large fortune, and gave the most 
splendid dinner parties in the city ? 

Mr. Tolbert thought it but of small conse- 
quence that Edward Cone was a licentious 
profligate, and had broken, at least, one en- 
gagement to marry. However, he did not com- 
mand his niece to accept of Edwin ; he only 
said, 1 you may take your choice, Isabejle. If 
you marry Mr. Cone, I will give you ten 
thousand pounds on the wedding day, and the 
remainder of my estate at my decease — but 
should you wed John Ranson, I will never give 


206 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


you a shilling, though you were starving at my 
gate.’ 

Isabelle preferred John ; and her uncle soon 
after left America, in high dudgeon, railing at 
the manners and customs of the people, and 
declaring that his niece would never have been 
guilty of such folly, in a country where a prop- 
er respect was paid to rank ; that the levelling 
principles of republicanism were subversive of 
all gentility, and must, while they governed 
the people, effectually prevent the regulations 
of good society from being understood and 
adopted. 

4 They are all,’ said he, 1 so perfectly cana- 
ille in their sentiments, that Isabelle’s choice 
was commended in some of their highest cir- 
cles, because, forsooth, John Hanson was in- 
dustrious, enterprising, and clever *, — I can 
say as much of my footman.’ 

Fourteen years passed — Isabelle had count- 
ed the lapse of.time, only by the recurrence of 
new blessings and pleasures, and to her, life 
still looked bright ; or, if a cloud appeared, it 
was always spanned with the rainbow. She 
was still lovely, and beloved ; the tender, tried, 
and trusted friend of her excellent husband, and 
the mother of one beautiful boy. What more 
can earth offer of happiness ! But why dwell 
on the picture ? 

A day of bliss is quickly told, 

A thousand would not make us old 
As one of sorrow doth — 

It is by cares, by woes and tears, 

We round the sum of human years 


PREJUDICES. 


207 


The embargo that preceded the last Ameri- 
can war, occasioned the first reverse of fortune. 
Mr. Ranson struggled manfully to support his 
credit, for he knew that the weal and wo of 
those dearer than himself, were involved in his 
fate. His friends, for a time, buoyed him up ; 
but the struggle between the nations commen- 
ced, and then who sympathised much for indi- 
vidual, and pecuniary suffering, while the fate 
of armies, and the fame of the Republic were 
at hazard ? But Mr. Ranson was soon re- 
leased from all inquietudes. Journeying from 
Albany to Boston, the carriage in which he 
travelled, was, by the horses taking fright, 
precipitated down a deep chasm, where he was 
instantly killed. 

Hitherto, Mrs. Ranson, though she had lost, 
or been abandoned by all her own relations, 
and had, by injustice and prejudice, been de- 
prived of the fortunes to which she had been 
apparently destined, yet it could hardly be 
said she had endured a reverse. Can that be 
termed a reverse which is not felt as a misfor- 
tune ? Even her husband’s embarrassments 
had not been realized by her, as he had sedu- 
lously labored to prevent his family from suffer- 
ing privations. But she was now widowed 
and destitute of property ; and the friends of 
her prosperity were so shocked at her misfor- 
tunes, and the consequent change in her ap- 
pearance and behavior, that they unanimously 
concluded that she did not wish for society ; 
and they were too well bred to intrude on her 
sorrows. 


203 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


The sufferings of Mrs. Ranson, and the ne- 
glect of her city friends, induced he-r to apply 
to the relations of her husband, and this finally 
led to an arrangement, by which she consent- 
ed to remove, with her child, to a small town in 
the western part of Massachusetts, and reside 
with his aged parents. 

Mrs. Ranson was now placed in a situation, 
perhaps the most difficult and trying of any in 
the world, for one of her character, and educa- 
tion. She was placed in a little tattling coun- 
try village, where the system of espionage was 
as perfect, and far more harassing, to those un- 
accustomed to its operations, than it ever was 
in Paris, when Fouche regulated the police, 
under the orders of Bonaparte. 

It is not in cities, or among the educated and 
fashionable of a community, that national pe- 
culiarities can be well, or truly discovered. 
We must go into the remote villages, and 
among the scattered settlements of the interior 
of New-England, if we would discover the ef- 
fect, either for good, or for evil, which the con- 
dition, principles, practices, and institutions of 
the Puritans, have had on the Yankee char- 
acter. 

It has not all been for good ; but our enemies 
have never discovered the greatest fault. It 
is not inquisitiveness, or egotism, or selfish- 
ness. It is calculation , — a close, cold, careful 
calculation. A Yankee, (I speak of the com- 
mon minded,) calculates his generosity and 
sympathy, as methodically as his income ; and 
to waste either, on an unprofitable, or unde- 


PREJUDICES. 


209 


serving object, would be foolish, if not wicked. 
He is charitable ; but it is from principle, not 
feeling. Yet he is not deficient in warmth of 
heart ; but duty, his duly is always paramount 
to his impulses. This is a good principle — the 
mischief is, that i good things spoiled, corrupt 
to worst.’ Thus his rigid performance of duty 
13 made, and often conscientiously, the plea of 
withholding assistance from the necessitous, 
for fear of encouraging idleness ; of prying in- 
to the most secret actions and sacred griefs of 
the afflicted, before pitying their sorrows, lest 
they should be deserved or self-incurred. 

Then the Yankee, in his calculations, gen- 
erally makes his own situation, conduct, and 
principles, the model for others. Accustomed 
to labor himself, he calculates that every per- 
son ought to be as constantly employed ; and 
compelled by his narrow income to practice 
rigid prudence, he deems a more liberal ex- 
penditure, wasteful profusion. 

It was among such a scrupulously calcu- 
lating people, that Mrs. Ranson was fated to 
dwell ; and she fixed the attention of the whole 
community. Her appearance, dress, conver- 
sation, manners, and principles, were all in 
turn, scrutinized ; even her thoughts and feel- 
ings were guessed at, and her plans and future 
prospects, made the frequent subject of that 
kind of commiseration, which seems to proceed 
from a hope, that the evils thus conjured up, 
like Banquo’s shadowy kings, to frown in re- 
view, will be fully realized. 

‘ 0 la !’ said Mrs. Pratt, as she took her 
18 * 


210 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


seat at the table of her neighbour Dustin, where 
she regularly drank her tea every week ; — ‘ 0 
la! I declare I never was so shocked in my 
life. Mrs. Cutter heard her say so.’ 

‘ Who ? what ?’ inquired Mr. Dustin. 

‘ Gracious ! Mr. Dustin, have you not heard 
it ?’ said Mrs. Pratt. ‘ Well, I declare, I 
never meant to mention the thing ; I would 
not have it get about among the people for all 
the world, for I really believe the woman does 
as well as she knows how. Only think ! she 
could not be brought up like a Christian, away 
there in the W r est Indies. We must have 
charity for such folks.’ 

‘ Oh, you are talking of Mrs. Ranson, I 
see,’ said Mr. Dustin. 

‘ Yes, I have just been telling your wife ; 
but pray never mention it, — or if you do, nev- 
er say I told you, — that Mrs. Ranson says she 
thinks our meetings are very dull, and she had 
rather read prayers at home, than hear our 
minister preach. And then she always wants 
a parade for dinner, because they used to have 
great dinners in the city. I wonder if she 
thinks that is the way to keep the Sabbath day 
holy ?’ 

1 Does she do anything, I wonder ?’ said 
Mrs. Dustin. 

‘ No, indeed — not she,’ replied Mrs. Pratt. 
‘Why, she has her black woman, to wait upon 
her ; and there’s her child, brought up in idle- 
ness ; that great boy, nearly fifteen, who wears 
his ruffles every day, and they say, never did 
any work in his life.’ 


PREJUDICES. 


211 


( I wonder how she thinks they are to be 
maintained,’ said Mr. Dustin. 4 Old Mr. Ran- 
son has but little property, and his wife is 
very unwell. They cannot support such an 
idle, expensive family.’ 

‘ Oh, she doesn’t think about it,’ replied 
Mrs. Pratt. 

4 Such grand folks never seem to think about 
expenses. They have never calculated how 
to get a living. But I fear she will have to 
put out her boy, and work herself, before she 
dies.’ 

4 1 suppose she expects people will assist 
her,’ said Mr. Dustin. 4 And the widow and 
fatherless should always be remembered.’ 

4 1 suppose she does ; but I am afraid the 
poor woman will be disappointed,’ said Mrs. 
Pratt. 4 People that work as hard as we do, 
cannot feel it our duty to support a family in 
idleness. She ought to put out that great boy, 
and have him taught to work, and then he 
might help maintain her.’ 

4 They say she married against her uncle’s 
consent,’ said Mrs. Dustin. 4 It is no wonder 
she does not prosper. — She might have had all 
his estate, if she had only tried to please him.’ 

4 She looks to me like a woman who is very 
set in her own way, and very haughty,’ said 
Mrs. Pratt. 4 I called to see her the day after 
she arrived, for I thought it my duty to visit the 
unfortunate, and the stranger, and I meant to 
like her, if I could, for I really pitied her ; but 
she took no notice of me, and hardly spoke 


212 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


while I was there. I cannot waste my time 
to visit such proud folks.’ 

Mrs. Ranson had a kind and generous dis- 
position, but she was very sensitive, and her 
refined and delicate mind, though bowed with 
affliction, was not, in the least, divested of 
those feelings of independence, and superior- 
ity, which persons always accustomed to afflu- 
ence, and to the humble attendance of slaves, 
must necessarily imbibe. She was shocked at 
the grossness of the villagers, and irritated at 
what she thought their unfeeling interference 
in her private concerns ; but, especially, the 
idea that her son ought to be confined to labor, 
was an indignity, an outrage, on all propriety, 
that she never could pardon. 

The two parties were soon completely at 
variance, and the villagers, by dint of clamors, 
if not reasons, were, as is usual, victorious. 
They convinced old Mr. Ranson, that his 
grandson John would certainly be ruined, if 
he was not taught to work. But the lad was 
as tenacious of his patrician privileges as his 
mother, and rather than don the ‘ every-day 
clothes’ of a plough boy, he besought her to 
allow him to enlist as a soldier. 

He was nearly fifteen, and tall of his age, 
and soldiers were, at that time, so much need- 
ed, that officers could not be very particular in 
the qualifications of recruits. It was a trying 
scene for Mrs, Ranson ; but finally, the pride 
and prejudices of the woman prevailed over 
the tenderness and apprehensions of the moth 


PREJUDICES. 


213 


er. She knew her son would be more expos- 
ed to danger with the musket ; but then he 
would escape the contamination of the spade. 
The field of glory, or the corn field ! Could 
one of her education and feelings prefer the 
latter ? She would let him go and serve his 
country, and leave his fate with that Power 
who watches the orphan. She could humble 
herself before God, and intercede for her child, 
but she could not endure to see him degraded 
before men, as in her estimation he would be, 
if he labored. 

The lad departed, and but a few weeks elaps- 
ed before a stranger came to the village and 
inquired for Mrs. Ranson. He was a messen- 
ger from the executors of her uncle Tolbert. 
That gentleman had on his. death bed, be- 
queathed his immense property to the son of 
Mrs. Ranson ; but still wishing to manifest 
some displeasure against his niece, he ordain- 
ed that if the boy died before he attained the 
age of eighteen, the estate should all go to a 
distant relative in England. After that period, 
should he die without heirs, the personal pro- 
perty, which was very considerable, was to be 
his mother’s. The messenger hastened with 
all possible speed to Buffalo, where the troops, 
in which young John Ranson served, were sta- 
tioned ; but before he arrived, the battle of 
Chippewa had been fought, and the brave boy, 
who signalized himself more than once during 
the action, was numbered with the dead ! 

Who shall picture the mother’s grief f It 


214 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


excited for a short time, the concern and con- 
sternation of the villagers ! They knew it 
was their clamors which induced Mrs. Ranson 
to send her son from her — they felt condemned; 
yet still, most of them pertinaciously maintain- 
ed that notwithstanding the wealth which the 
boy would have inherited had he lived, it would 
nevertheless have been an excellent thing for 
him, had he learned to work. 

It is painful to dwell on the sorrows of the 
desolate hearted, but it is more painful still to 
witness the cold, unfeeling manner with which 
those sorrows are ofttimes treated by the igno- 
rant and prejudiced. The regret of the villa- 
gers was of short continuance. Mrs. Pratt be- 
gan her round of visiting, and by the time she 
had drank tea with all the principal families 
in the neighbourhood, which was about three 
weeks, she had convinced them that Mrs. Ran- 
son was not at all to be pitied ; that her troub- 
les were but a just chastisement for her pride 
and obstinacy ; and that it was doubtless a 
mercy that her son was taken away, as she 
would now have no earthly dependence, and 
would probably soon be brought to a proper 
sense of her follies, and then she would see that 
everything had been ordered for the best. 

But there was one benevolent family in the 
village. One man and woman' who pitied and 
assisted Mrs. Ranson, without censuring her. 
There were doubtless others of similar gene- 
rosity; but these persons were the only ones 
she would acknowledge as benefactors. That 


PREJUDICES 


215 


inflexible perseverance in a favorite point when 
persuaded that duty sanctions the course pur- 
sued, which is so characteristic of the Yankees, 
and which Mrs. Hanson thought so inhuman 
while employed to convince her that her son 
ought to work, she found, when displayed in 
her service, was equally zealous. Mr. Law- 
rence was a merchant, but he did not square 
his humanity by the rule of ‘ loss and gain.’ 
He learned from the tenor of Mrs. Ranson’s 
father’s will, that, as a widow, she was entitled 
to an hundred pounds per annum, and he nev- 
er ceased his inquiries, and exertions, till he 
had succeeded in establishing her claim, and 
providing for the regular payment of her an- 
nuity. He delivered into her hands the docu- 
ments, and told her the only reward for his 
trouble which he desired was to see her restor- 
ed to tranquillity. But though she did justice 
to the nobleness and humanity of Mr. Law- 
rence, and loved his wife like a sister, she 
could not be persuaded to return to society. 
The fate of her husband and son, but especial- 
ly the latter, preyed on her heart, and almost 
overwhelmed her reason. She felt that she 
had yielded to her own prejudices when she 
consented he should go to the battle. Self- 
accusation made her wretched. She blamed 
the people, it is true, but that did not atone or 
justify her own error. Had there been a con- 
vent in the country, she would undoubtedly 
have devoted herself to the penance of a mo- 
nastic life. She finally had a small house pre- 


216 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


pared as near as possible to the spot where 
her husband perished ; and there, accompanied 
only by her faithful negro woman who had at- 
tended her from infancy, she resided in 1820 . 
Pale and wasted, but still beautiful, she seem- 
ed, as she was described by the traveller, ar- 
rayed in her mourning habiliments, wandering 
among the lonely hills, or seated on the over- 
hanging cliffs, like a spirit sent to warn him of 
some danger in the path before him. She was 
the victim of prejudices. But let it be re- 
membered, that though we may be excessively 
annoyed by the prejudices of others, we shall 
never be quite wretched if we do not yield 
ourselves to the guidance of our own. 


THE APPARITION, 


I say the pulpit, in the sober use 
Of its legitimate, peculiar powers, 

Must stand acknowledged, while the world shall stani 
The most important and effectual guard 
Support and ornament of virtue’s cause. 

Cowfer 

About fifty miles from Albany, in the proud 
state of New-York, there is a pleasantly situ- 
ated little village, which we call Harmony. 
Some events which occurred there a few years 
since, may perhaps interest those readers who 
have the good taste to prefer exhibitions of our 
national and republican peculiarities of charac- 
ter to descriptions of European manners, and 
the good nature to concede, that the efforts of 
those American writers who are attempting to 
awaken the love and the pride of national lit- 
erature among their countrymen, deserve, at 
least, to be tolerated. The southeastern line 
of Harmony is bounded by a high, rugged 
mountain, Coat seems to look frowningly down 
on the neat, thriving farms stretching along the 
borders of a small river, which winds silently 
through copse and plain at its base. The 
meanderings of this quiet stream are marked 
19 


213 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


on the western border by a narrow strip of rich 
meadow land, displaying alternately patches of 
mowing, fields of corn, or of that vegetable 
which an European might with propriety term 
a republican root , as its discovery and use 
have more perhaps than any other resource, 
contributed to support an increase of popula- 
tion among the laboring classes in the old 
world. The broad harvest moon had just risen 
above the rugged mountain, and there trembled 
over the landscape that soft silvery lustre which 
so frequently tempts the poet to write and the 
maniac to rove. But neither poet or maniac 
had ever been known to exist within the pre- 
cincts of Harmony, and it seemed quite improb- 
able Luna should there find a worshipper. Yet 
one there was, and a fair one too, regarding that 
bright moon with an attention as absorbing, if 
not a devotion as sincere, as ever a devotee of 
Ephesus paid at the shrine of Diana. Lois Law- 
ton was the last surviving child of the clergy- 
man who presided over the only church which 
had then been organized in Harmony. He 
was a Presbyterian, a good preacher and a 
strictly conscientious man, and but for two 
reasons might have been very popular among 
his parishioners. In the first place he did not 
sufficiently regard the feelings of the minority 
who were from principle or prejudice (it is 
sometimes very difficult to determine which 
predominates in the human mind) opposed 
to his settlement ; and in the second place he 
strenuously insisted on the fulfilment of a prom- 
ise which the majority had made him, namely, 


THE APPARITION 


219 


that at the expiration of five years from the 
time of his installation, there should be a con- 
venient and handsome house for divine worship 
erected in the town. No one disputed the need 
of such a building, as the congregation were 
obliged to assemble alternately at a school- 
house and a hall. The unchurchlike charac- 
ter of the hall, where the Fourth-of-July revels, 
and New Year balls, were held as regularly as 
the summer and winter came round, was, in the 
opinion of all the good women, quite a scandal 
to their religious services. The men were not 
quite so scrupulous. They wisely considered 
that the building of a church would involve the 
payment of taxes, and that inconvenience came 
more home to the sensibilities of many rich men 
than the recollection that where the fiddle had 
resounded, prayers and holy hymns were to be 
fervently breathed, or devoutly sung. But 
finally Mr. Lawton, by dint of private expos- 
tulations with his church members, and public 
reproofs from the pulpit, succeeded so far that 
a town meeting was warned to be held, to see 
what steps should be taken to provide ways 
and means for building a meeting-house. 

There is no record of a nation on earth 
whose origin, progress, character and institu- 
tions were, or are, in their predominating fea- 
tures, similar to ours. Democracies have 
been, and governments called, free ; but the 
spirit of independence and the consciousness 
of unalienable rights, were never before trans- 
fused into the minds of a whole people. Thp 
trammels of rank have always been, since the 


220 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


days of Nimrod, worn in the old world ; and 
there men, even when attempting to throw off 
the yoke of despotism, will be found stooping 
to established customs, and wearing the ‘ far- 
dels ’ of fashion as if still in the harness. But 
in these United States no idol of nobility was 
ever set up ; and consequently, the people 
have never been degraded by cringing at the 
nod of a fellow mortal. Our citizens walk the 
earth with a consciousness of moral dignity 
which places them on a level with the king 
upon his throne. The feeling of equality 
which they proudly cherish does not proceed 
from an ignorance of their station, but from the 
knowledge of their rights ; and it is this know- 
ledge which will render it so exceedingly diffi- 
cult for any tyrant ever to triumph over the 
liberties of our country. However, to know 
the rights of man is but half the benefit im- 
parted by our free institutions — they teach also 
to know his duties. Persons accustomed only 
to those establishments where the interests of 
church and state are inseparably blended, and 
where some particular form of devotion is en- 
forced and supported by authority, can hardly 
Delieve that were religious worship left wholly 
to the free choice and voluntary support of the 
people, it would be adequately maintained 
Yet our history will conclusively prove that 
piety of heart and freedom of mind are not 
only perfectly compatible, but that the exer- 
cise of the understanding in the examination 
of creeds, and the volition of the will in the 
admission of truth, are favorable to the cause 


THE APPARITION. 


m 


of religion and the Bible. Is this doubted ? — 
then let the caviller point to the Christian na- 
tion in which are so few infidels as here ; here, 
where freedom of inquiry, and conscience, 
and belief, and worship, are not only enjoyed, 
but exercised without the least shadow of civil 
control. 

These remarks are not foreign to my sub- 
ject, though they may seem misplaced, and ac- 
tually be uninteresting or dull. It was only the 
conscientious feeling of duty, which freedom 
of inquiry and conduct brings home with a 
sense of awful responsibility to those who pro- 
fess to be Christians and know themselves 
free, that would have induced the frugal, pains- 
taking, unostentatious citizens of Harmony to 
tax themselves with the expense of erecting a 
handsome house for religious worship, when 
they were many of them still dwelling in their 
small, inconvenient log tenements. The town 
patent had been originally granted to a Dutch- 
man belonging to Albany, and the first settlers 
were descendants from the Dutch colonists ; 
but about the year 1790 the unoccupied parts 
of the patent were purchased by a Yankee 
speculator, and most of the later emigrants had 
been from New-England. The inhabitants, 
however, lived harmoniously together. Not 
that they agreed exactly in sentiment on every 
subject, but they seemed for some time to 
cherish a spirit of mutual forbearance. The 
Dutchman suffered his Yankee visiter to talk 
without interruption and argue without contra- 
diction, and in return for this politeness the 
19* 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


m 

latter saw his phlegmatic neighbour still adhere 
to those old customs, which he had been striv- 
ing to convince him were not only extremely 
absurd, but very expensive and inconvenient, 
without exhibiting much disgust. 

The settlement of Mr. Lawton was the first 
occurrence that threatened to make a deadly 
breach between the parties. The Yankees 
were nearly all Congregationalists — the Dutch, 
Presbyterians ; — the former made the most 
bustle, but the latter polled the most votes, and 
the settlement of their favorite was according- 
ly effected. The Congregationalists were at 
perfect liberty to seek a pastor after their own 
faith, but as the town did not contain more 
people than might conveniently be accommo- 
dated at one meeting, and Mr. Lawton was re- 
spected by all and acknowledged to be a good 
man, the Yankees finally concluded to attend 
on his ministry, and pay their proportion of 
his salary. Had Mr. Lawton been what, in 
worldly language, is termed a managing man, 
he might doubtless have satisfied both parties. 
But he had fixed rules of action, from which 
he would not swerve, and settled principles 
which he would not soften, even though he 
might by that means have gained the populari- 
ty of a Chalmers. And then he had a serious 
dislike to the Puritan mode of church govern- 
ment, which he took no pains to conceal or 
qualify. In short, though, as I have said, he 
was a good man, he was not sufficiently care- 
ful to prevent ‘ his good from being evil spoken 
of.’ The consequence was, that his Congre- 


TILE APPARITION. 


223 


gational hearers soon took mortal offence and 
withdrew from his society. Had they stopped 
there, perhaps their conduct might not have 
deserved much blame, as it was evident to all 
that Mr. Lawton’s sermons were oftener calcu- 
lated to rouse their sectarian prejudices than 
awaken their religious feelings. But they 
were not satisfied with acting merely on the 
defensive, for when was a Yankee ever known 
to underrate his own importance, or quietly 
submit to have his religious faith and mode of 
worship censured as unsound and unscriptural ? 

Meekness and forbearance was not certain- 
ly the spirit evinced by the Congregationalists 
of Harmony ; and from protesting against the 
presbyterian forms , they soon came to detest 
and vilify the man, who so strenuously support- 
ed them, and the people who were his adhe- 
rents. 

Matters were in this state between the par- 
ties, when the meeting-house was voted to be 
erected. This vote was conscientiously giv- 
en, for when roused to reflection by the argu- 
ments and expostulations of their pastor, the 
Presbyterians knew it to be their duty to build 
the house, and yet, so wayward is the heart, 
so deeply rooted is selfishness, that many 
were dissatisfied, almost angry, because Mr. 
Lawton thus urged upon them the perform- 
ance of an inconvenient duty. 

Some Europeans have suggested that while 
depending entirely upon the people for their 
support, our clergy must be timid and time- 
serving, and while their own interest is involv- 


224 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


ed in pleasing their hearers, that there is cause 
to fear they will often make a sacrifice of con- 
science to convenience. This might be the 
case, were not the clergy sensible that they 
are themselves a part of the sovereign people, 
and that to bow, cringe and fawn, would be a 
renunciation of the dignity which here entitles 
a man to respect from his fellow men. It is 
the great merit of our free institutions that 
they accustom those who enjoy them, to re- 
flection and reasoning. It is not that our citi- 
zens may choose their own governors, and 
enact the laws by which such governors must 
be guided, that makes the privileges of which 
Americans should be most proud. It is, that, 
with the knowledge of his own pe’ sonal inde- 
pendence, which is as familiar to the republi- 
can child as 4 household words,’ there is also 
inculcated a conviction of man’s responsibility, 
not only to his God, but his country, posterity, 
the whole world. And so far as the human 
mind can shake off selfishness and act from a 
sacred regard to truth, justice and duty, so far 
will men not only be virtuous, but fearless in 
virtue. And will not a clergyman be more 
likely thus to feel and act, in a situation where 
he is placed and retained by the sober approv- 
al of a majority of his free parishioners, than 
when he owes his station to caprice, or favorit- 
ism, or stipulation with an individual ? There 
needs no proof, but to attend our churches or 
read the sermons of our divines, to convince 
the most skeptical that our clergy are faithful 
in the cause of religion, and that their flocks 


THE APPARITION. 


225 


esteem them higher for such plain dealing. 
But everything excellent is liable to be abus- 
ed or perverted ; and this plain dealing may 
De rendered ungracious by a disagreeable 
manner. It is the manner which offends ; and 
it was the manner of Mr. Lawton which made 
his people complain. No one thought of blam- 
ing him for supporting freely his own opinions, 
or insisting that the promise concerning the 
meeting-house should be fulfilled, but it was 
said he was too dictatorial, and that he hur- 
ried on the workmen without reference to the 
extra expense which it made the people, to 
move faster than the usual considerate motion 
of a Dutchman would allow. 

But what has this long explanation to do 
with Lois Lawton, the clergyman’s daughter ? 
Much — it will enable you, reader, if you have 
read it, which I somewhat doubt, to judge of 
the perplexities which surrounded that young, 
fair girl who is my heroine, and I hope will be 
yours, while she was earnestly seeking to heal 
those divisions which had unhappily, for some 
time, rendered the inhabitants of Harmony as 
unharmonious a set as can well be imagined. 
To soothe suffering and calm the turbulent 
passions of men, is so naturally the office of wo- 
man, that Lois Lawton need not be consider- 
ed a heroine merely because she was a peace- 
maker ; but it really must be placed among ex- 
traordinary achievements, that she, by her pru- 
dent and conciliating conduct, so ingratiated 
herself with the good vrows , that they actually 
came to the resolution to abstain from the use 


226 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


of tea and sugar for a given period, till they 
had saved a sum sufficient to pay for painting 
the church, which expense, by the way, was 
the one of which the Dutchmen most loudly 
complained ; and it was likewise an item on 
which Mr. Lawton had strenuously insisted. 
But to appease and please the Yankees, re- 
quired more address, and yet their good will 
was very necessary to the happiness of the 
clergyman’s daughter. 

She thought as she gazed on the bright moon, 
of the bitter prejudices that existed between her 
father and Captain Isaiah Warren, the chief 
leader of the Yankee faction ; and then she 
thought of his son, the young Isaiah, between 
whom and her father’s daughter, prejudices, 
but not bitter ones, also existed. 

4 He said he had a plan which he hoped 
would heal these differences, and make my 
father look with approbation on our love,’ said 
the fair girl, softly yet audibly, a blush crimson- 
ing her cheek, even though alone, and veiled 
around by the shades of night, at the thought 
of marrying Isaiah. 

4 And you consent I shall pursue my plan,’ 
said Isaiah, who had advanced, unperceived, 
and then stood close beside her. 

Lois had not expected him so soon, but she 
was not easily flurried, or at least, she never 
affected more fright than she really felt, and 
though somewhat confused that he had over- 
heard her soliloquy, she neither screamed nor 
fainted ; but, after a moment’s silence, turned 
calmly towards him, and begged he would ex- 


THE APPARITION. 


227 


plain why he had so anxiously urged this inter- 
view. ‘ I wish to return home before prayers,’ 
said she — £ or my father will be uneasy, per- 
haps offended, at my absence.’ 

The lovers were standing partly in the 
shadow of a broad sycamore that threw its 
branches over the little stream at their feet. 
The water there looked dark and deep, but fur- 
ther on, it was sparkling in the moonbeams, 
that came down with that glistening power 
which so sweetly invites £ lovers to breathe their 
vows,’ and disposes £ ladies to listen.’ I wish 
I had time to describe these two young per- 
sons, just as they looked while they glanced 
their eyes alternately at the charming prospect 
around them, and then turned, by stealth, their 
gaze on each other. 

A genuine descendant of the pilgrims, has 
usually, a high, bold forehead, and a firm ex- 
pression around the chin and mouth, which 
gives a decided, and generally a grave cast to 
the countenance. This gravity, however, is, 
in a degree, more or less, according to the age 
and character of the person, counteracted by 
the expression in the deep-set eye — keen, live- 
ly, penetrating ; it announces quickness of 
thought and humor, which is always allowed 
to the Yankees, both by friends and foes — the 
one terming the quickness wit, the other wick- 
edness. When I say that Isaiah Warren had 
a fine complexion, good features, and real ro- 
guish-looking, Yankee eyes, that would flash 
with thought or merriment till the blue iris ap- 
peared nearly black as the pupil dilated, I 


228 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


mean to be understood that he was very hand- 
some, or, to use a more indefinite, and there- 
fore, more polite phrase, that he had a very fas- 
cinating expression of countenance. And he 
thought Lois Lawton was beautiful as an an- 
gel. It is therefore of little consequence what 
others would think, should she be portrayed. 
A woman should never sigh for personal ad- 
miration, except from the man she loves. 

‘ You have heard, I presume,’ said Isaiah, 
the blood flushing over his cheeks and temple 
as he spoke, ‘ that my mother is firmly per- 
suaded that I am to become a clergyman ?’ 

Lois half smiled, as she answered in the 
affirmative. 

‘It is a foolish whim,’ he continued, ‘ and yet 
my mother is a worthy woman, and a sensible 
one, in all, except what relates to me. Some- 
how my parents, from my being the first born, 
I presume, always appeared to expect I should 
do marvels. I am sorry they indulge such hopes, 
and yet the knowledge of their expectations, 
hao, I confess, spurred me on to attempt be- 
hg the first, both at school and college. At 
school my superiority was never denied, and 
at college, though I labored under the disad- 
vantage of being poorly fitted, and having to 
be a teacher every winter, in order to earn 
money to support myself, my father being, with 
nis large family, unable to furnish sufficient 
funds ; yet I know 1 maintained a respectable 
standing in my class. But I have now gradua- 
ted, and my parents are urging me to com- 
mence the study of divinity. Could I study 


THE APPARITION. 


229 


with your father, Lois, I would willingly obey 
them.’ 

Lois looked astonished, and yet gratified, 
for her father was, in her opinion, the best 
man, and best minister, in the whole world. 
But how could the matter be brought about ? 
Captain Warren would never suffer his son to 
study with a Presbyterian clergyman. 

4 My mother,’ resumed Isaiah, 4 is confident 
she once saw a vision ; though, I presume, it 
was nothing but a dream. When 1 was an in- 
fant, she says, that one night a figure, clothed 
in the costume of spirits, which is, I believe, 
always white, approached her bed, and told her 
that I would be a marvellous boy, and that I 
must have a good education, and then it would 
be again revealed what I must do. Since that 
time, my mother has watched every incident 
which has occurred to me, and tortured them 
all into omens, which she constantly interprets 
in my favor, till she has worked herself into the 
belief, that I am to be a great man ; and, as 
greatness and goodness are, in her pure mind, 
inseparably connected, she is convinced I am 
to be a great , good man, which must mean a 
minister. It is in vain for me to combat these 
imaginings. Indeed, I do not wish to disprove 
her fancies, but to fulfil them ; still I should 
like, I own, to make this romance, supersti- 
tion, or prophecy, whichever it may be, some- 
what subservient to my own happiness.’ 

4 But how has this any reference to my fa- 
ther ?’ inquired Lois, timidly. 

4 1 have thought ,’ and he hesitated, as 


•20 


230 


AMERICAN SKETCHES 


if afraid or ashamed to say what he was intend- 
ing — ‘ X have thought, if the apparition would 
a^ain inform my mother that it was necessary 
for me to study with Mr. Lawton, that all ob- 
jections, on the part of my family, would be re- 
moved at once.’ 

‘You would not, surely, deceive your mother, 
Isaiah ?’ said Lois, turning on him her dark, 
expressive eyes, with a look of reproachful 
tenderness. 

‘ She has deceived herself, Lois. You are 
not more credulous than I ; nor do you ima- 
gine, that, like Glendower — you remember it in 
Shakspeare — 

“ These signs have marked me extraordinary, 

And all the courses of my life do show 

I am not in the roll of common men.” 

Yet my mother firmly believes it. The Yan- 
kees are not credulous, or easily imposed 
upon ; but, when once they have imbibed a 
superstition, it is difficult to eradicate the pre- 
judice ; because they are constantly reasoning 
themselves more and more into the belief of 
the reality of their fancies. Thus, everything, 
even the most common incidents, concerning 
me, are marked, and noted, and made, in 
some sense or other, to refer to the destiny for 
which my mother thinks me born. Where can 
be the harm in taking advantage of this super- 
stition, which I cannot remove, to heal the 
prejudices that, at present, unhappily divide 
our families ; and thus overcome the only ob- 
stacles that exist to our union V He then went 
on to state, that what he proposed was, to en- 


THE APPARITION. SSI 

velope himself in a white sheet, appear in his 
mother’s room, and say, in a hoarse, sepul- 
chral voice, that 4 Isaiah must study divinity 
with Mr. Lawton.’ And he wished Lois to 
aid in disposing her father to credit the story 
and receive the student. The families would 
then be necessitated to hold some intercourse, 
which, the sanguine lover was confident, would 
ripen into fellowship and friendship. 

4 But we must not do evil, that good may 
follow,’ said Lois, with that solemnity of man- 
ner so peculiarly affecting when assumed by 
the young and lovely. 4 This deception on your 
good and kind parents, though not intended 
for evil purposes, is still a deception. It will 
be derogatory to the sacred character you are 
intending to assume. It is wrong — I cannot 
tell you all the evil consequences that may 
follow — but my conscience tells me it is wrong. 
You must not, Isaiah, you must not do it.’ 

It was all in vain, that he represented he 
should otherwise be sent to Connecticut, to 
study there with the favorite clergyman of his 
mother ; and that, in the interim, the jealousies 
and divisions in the town would probably in- 
crease ; and, perhaps, his father and hers, be- 
come so exasperated with each other, as to 
forbid their children to marry together. It 
was all in vain. Lois would not be convinced 
that expediency was any excuse for practising 
deception ; and though Isaiah’s passion had, 
in a measure, stiffed his conscientious scru- 
ples, his sophistry could not stifle hers. So 
they separated- she, with a sad face and slow 


232 AMERICAN SKETCHES. 

skep, proceeded homewards — and he, with a 
sadder face and slower movement, wended his 
way towards a neighbouring house, where he 
had promised to assist as a watcher with an 
old man, who was dangerously sick. The man 
died that night, and Isaiah gazed on a scene 
he had never before witnessed — the last scene 
of all. It struck him most painfully ; because 
the old man frequently adverted to, and la- 
mented, the follies of his youth, — while it was 
continually occurring to Isaiah, that he had 
been guilty of a great sin, even to plan a decep- 
tion upon his kind parents. 

When the youth entered his father’s house, 
the next morning, he found the whole family in 
commotion ; and he learned, to his astonish- 
ment, almost horror, that his mother had seen 
the white apparition again, and it had told her 
that if Isaiah would prosper in this world, and 
be saved in the next, he must study with Mr. 
Lawton. 

Isaiah was thunderstruck, — and, in the con- 
sternation of the moment, he acknowledged 
what had been his own intentions respecting 
the personating of the apparition. The mat- 
ter grew more solemn, and Mr. Lawton and 
Lois were summoned ; when the clergyman 
was, for the first time, apprised, that his daugh- 
ter and the young student were looking to each 
other for their earthly happiness. As nothing, 
to clear up the mystery of the apparition, ap- 
peared, it was believed, by all the women in 
fhe town, to be an awful warning, a solemn call 
to the two religious parties, to lay aside their 


THE APPARITION. 


233 


prejudices against each other ; and as the meet- 
ing-house was now completed, and the people 
were curious to attend in the new building, Mr. 
Lawton had the satisfaction, and a heart-felt 
satisfaction it is to a good man, of seeing a full 
audience listening to his sermon on the first 
Sabbath he performed divine service in the 
new church. 

From that time, there was more unanimity 
amopg the inhabitants, than had been since 
Mr. Lawton began his ministry. This change 
was universally ascribed to the priest, who, his 
hearers observed, preached fewer doctrinal ser- 
mons, and insisted less on the doctrinal points 
than used to be his wont. Undoubtedly there 
was a change. Mr. Lawton as firmly believed 
in the apparition as any of his people. Neither 
was this strange, as he was descended, by the 
father’s side, from a Scotch emigrant, who 
fancied himself gifted with the second sight, 
and his mother was a German, fully believing 
in all the wild and awful legends of German 
superstition. And, notwithstanding Mr. Law- 
ton was a man of sound sense and fervent piety, 
it is not strange he should be a little infected 
with superstitious or imaginative notions. But 
these had, in this instance, a salutary effect ; 
because, as the apparition had, as it were, 
borne witness to the saving creed of the min- 
ister, he did not think it necessary to argue 
continually to prove his creed the saving one. 
And so the town of Harmony seemed soon 
more deserving of its name. 

There was a marked change of manner in 
20 * 


CS4 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


Isaiah Warren, from the time he commenced 
his religious studies; and when he was licensed 
and entered on the duties of his sacred office, 
no young clergyman could be more devout and 
devoted. Fourteen years passed away — The 
Rev. David Lawton and Captain Isaiah War- 
ren were both gathered to their fathers. They 
had died in full charity with each other, and in 
the assured belief, that Presbyterians and Con- 
gregationalists were to inherit the same hea- 
ven. But Mrs. Warren still lived — lived, to 
enjoy the pious triumph of seeing her favorite 
son installed as pastor over the destitute church 
of Harmony. And all this, she firmly believed 
was foretold her by the apparition. She was 
never undeceived — but the reader must be. 

Isaiah Warren had a brother Benjamin, a 
wild, roguish, adventurous fellow, who finally 
went to sea, and was absent many years. Af- 
ter his return, as he was sitting one evening in 
his brother’s study, telling such tales of his 
wondrous chances as sailors will tell, he re- 
marked an air of incredulity on Isaiah’s coun- 
tenance, and instantly paused. 

£ Why do you not proceed ?’ inquired Isaiah. 

£ You do not credit me,’ returned Benjamin; 
‘ and yet it does not require a greater degree 
of faith than you once exercised about an ap- 
parition.’ 

Isaiah saw the keen eye of his brother spar- 
kle with mirth, and something that announced 
a triumph. In a moment the truth flashed on 
his mind. He started up, and striking the ta 
ble with a volume of Baxter’s u Saint’s Rest , 


THE APPARITION. 


235 


(the favorite book, next to the Bible, of his 
father-in-law, the late Mr. Lawton,) as if the 
said book had been a batten, he exclaimed — 
‘ Ben, I know you were that apparition !’ 

After a hearty laugh, Ben confessed the 
whole. £ I was,’ said he, £ down close by the 
river, among some bushes at your feet, where 
I had crept to fix a trap for a mink, and there 
I lay and heard all your conversation with 
Lois. After you had gone, thinks I to my- 
self, I will even play the trick on mother, and 
it will be no sin, for I am not intending to be 
a minister. So I wrapped up myself, and 
stole into mother’s room, on tiptoe, and I said 
“ Isaiah must study with Mr. Lawton,” and 
then was out again in the twinkling of an eye. 
That was all I did say, and that about your 
being saved, was no words of mine. When I 
found how seriously the affair was taken, I did 
not dare to own what I had done. But, on the 
whole, I think it was a good thing. You ob- 
tained your wife, and the people were all made 
more peaceable and christianlike, and no bad 
effect has followed. This, I guess, happened, 
because I was not influenced by any bad or 
selfish motives, for our chaplain always said, 
that it was only the indulgence of selfishness 
that caused us to sin.’ 


WILLIAM FORBES, 


0! wherefore with a rash impetuous aim 
Seek ye those flowery joys with which the hand 
Of lavish Fancy paints each flattering scene 
Where Beauty seems to dwell, nor once inquire 
Where is the sanction of eternal Truth, 

Or where the seal of undeceitful Good 

To save your search from folly ! Wanting these, 

Lo, Beauty withers in your void embrace. 

AKXN3IDE 

1 What answer did Elizabeth give ? 5 
Those readers, who have been sufficiency 
interested in the work, to retain a recollection 
of the contents of the fifth Sketch, may remem- 
ber, that ‘ The Village Schoolmistress’ was 
left undecided respecting the answer she should 
make to the matrimonial suggestion of her re- 
creant but repentant lover, William Forbes. 

We have given her six months to consider 
the matter, and in this steam age of the world, 
no woman ought to require a longer time to 
make up her mind. What enviable advanta- 
ges the antediluvian ladies enjoyed ! They 
might reflect and reject, doubt and delay, con- 
sider and coquet, for at least three hundred 
years, without any risk of incurring that appal- 
ling epithet, which now, in the brief period of 
thirty, is sure to be bestowed on the fair one 


WILLIAM FORBES. 


23 ? 


who dares to remain in £ single blessedness.’ 
Yet I never envied that longlived race. I am 
inclined to believe, the movement of the spirit 
was then as sluggish as the course of time. 
It must have been so, or the body could not 
for so long a season have resisted the efforts 
of the soul to escape from its prison house. 
And this sluggishness must have infected their 
literature. What interminable, prosing arti- 
cles, many of our writers are even now inclin- 
ed to perpetrate, and if their hours might be 
lengthened to years, would infallibly inflict 
upon the public ! Nothing but the necessity 
of accommodating himself to the proverbial 
speed of time, will induce your thorough quill- 
loving author, to come to the conclusion of his 
favorite argument or article. And from this 
mania of 6 long talks,’ which seems inherent 
in most writers, we may safely conclude, that 
those men of a thousand years, would not neg- 
lect their mighty privilege of making folios. 
To be sure, in the dullest of all dull matter-of- 
fact knowledge, chronology and genealogy, 
they had the means of excelling. But romance 
— dear, delightful romance — what chance for 
a romance writer, when every event that had 
occurred since creation was within the memory 
of man ! And how could they write poetry, 
among such an unchanging and deathless 
generation ? It would not certainly be the 
poetry of feeling — melting, moving, melan- 
choly poetry ; for instance, like that most 
beautiful of all Burns’s beautiful productions, 
c Highland Mary.’ And where did they find 


2SS 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


metaphors to express the long unfading dura- 
tion of the youth they must have enjoyed ? 
Not in those bright, beautiful, but evanes- 
cent, or shifting things — buds and flowers — the 
morning and the moon. Only think of com- 
paring the charms of a lovely girl, to the firm- 
ness of the mountain oak, or the unwasting, 
unvarying appearance of the solid rock ! Then 
they had no rainbow. Ah, they never wrote 
poetry — that’s certain ! 

Other reasons, quite as pertinent and con- 
clusive, might easily be offered, to prove what 
a dull, cold, formal, changeless and charmless 
race they must have been, — but of all kinds 
of knowledge, I consider antiquarian lore as 
the most unwomanly. It must be gained by 
so much research, and explained by such learn- 
ed terms, and defended by so many arguments, 
in the Sir Pertinax style of obstinacy, that, 
heaven defend me from ever meeting with that 
anomaly in our species — an antiquarian with- 
out a beard. Leaving it therefore, to some 
future Jonathan Oldbuck, as curious and com- 
municative as he of Monkbarns, to pursue the 
inquiry respecting the precise age at which we 
may conclude a belle of the Nimrodian era, 
became an old maid, I will return to the ex- 
planation of those modern causes which gave 
to Elizabeth Brooks that uncoveted title. 

I have said, or ought to have said, that Wil- 
liam Forbes was an excellent scholar, the very 
first in his class, and, undoubtedly indebted 
for much of his mental superiority, to that cir- 
cumstance, which is so often, and truly too, 


WILLIAM FORBES. 


2S9 


considered a serious obstacle to the literary 
career of a collegian — namely, his love en- 
gagement. 

This unusual result, must be attributed to 
the fact, that Elizabeth Brooks had the good 
sense, to use rightly and rationally, the influ- 
ence she possessed over the heart and soul of 
the young student. Instead of wishing to en- 
gross his mind and time, with the trifles which 
must occupy much of the life of a young girl, 
she admired, and sought to imitate him in his 
studies. And that simple circumstance, con- 
tributed more to anpnate him in his exertion, 
than all the lectures of his tutors, or the pros- 
pect of obtaining triumphs over his class-mates. 
How eagerly he read, and how early he an- 
swered all her long epistles with letters still 
longer ; — and yet their correspondence was 
like that of literary friends. To a stranger, 
their letters would scarcely have betrayed that 
they were lovers. His were filled with trans- 
lations from the classics, beautiful sentiments 
that enchanted him, and must therefore en- 
chant Elizabeth — explanations of ancient cus- 
toms and costumes, which threw light on some 
otherwise obscure passages he had read to 
Elizabeth, — solutions of problems, or explana 
tions of questions that had been proposed by 
Elizabeth. Her answers were more sprightly 
than his, (a woman who can write at all, sel- 
dom writes a dull letter,) but nevertheless, were 
sufficiently learned to have entitled her, had 
they been seen by a literary coxcomb, to that 
frightful appellation, a bas bleu. I say fright- 


240 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


ful, because the terror of that name, has pre- 
vented, and still prevents more women from 
cultivating their minds, than would the fear 
of the dungeon or the rack. It is the intellect- 
ual Blue Beard, threatening an awful and un- 
known punishment to those women, who dare 
a single peep into the secret chambers of 
knowledge — and where is the learned lady, 
who can ever hope for a generous Selim to 
rescue her from the keen, uplifted edge of the 
sword of sarcasm ? 

Elizabeth Brooks, however, was wiser than 
most wise ladies, — that is, she did not assume 
those airs, which some learned women think 
so indispensable to distinguish their important 
selves from the crowd. She might be a little 
proud of her learning, she was certainly proud 
of William’s learning, but the pride of teaching 
him — that pride which makes men so thorough- 
ly dread, detest, and ridicule a learned woman, 
she never displayed. Even when, as was fre- 
quently the case, he acknowledged, the supe- 
rior justness of her remarks, or submitted to 
the justness of her criticisms, she did not ex- 
press any triumph — but modestly ascribed her 
discernment to some hint or information he 
had before given her ; thus making his self- 
love aid in the influence she possessed over 
him. And for many years, the attachment 
fostered between these young persons, appear- 
ed, and indeed was of that pure, refined, intel- 
lectual and exalted character, which poets 
would tell us, was ‘ half divine’ and would be 
quite eternal. It was that kind of affection 


WILLIAM FORBES. 


241 


which, if aught dependent on human passion 
were changeless, might hope to be so. But, 
alas ! the heart — Who can answer for the 
wayward heart, or more wayward fancy ? 

1 ne parting, and as affecting one as a novel 
writer ever witnessed, maugre all their senti- 
mental descriptions, — the parting of William 
and Elizabeth has been already recorded, and 
it irks me quite as much to tell a story twice, 
as to listen to a twice told tale. So we will 
without further ceremony, accompany my he- 
ro to Albany, and consider him entered as a 
student-at-law, in the office of Judge Morse. 
(Note. Almost every lawyer in New-York, 
has, or might have, the title of Judge..) Mr. 
Morse was a good, that is, a true, specimen of 
the professional, political, popular men in 
New-York. He was social and hospitable, 
frank, cheerful, and fond of humor, if not him- 
self a wit. He was also rich and respected, 
had a gay, agreeable wife, and several children, 
and his house was one of the most fashionable 
in the city, and the resort of all the fashion- 
ables. 

Here was a marvellous change to William. 
He was transferred at once from the formal 
routine and rigid rules of a college life, where 
no flirting with the ladies was permitted to be 
thought of, except the ethereal flirtation of 
wooing those shy lasses, the 4 sweet and sacred 
Nine, 5 and where nothing in this round world 
was considered so important, as to have the 
first appointment in the class, or be abl-e to 
write the best ‘ ode to Hope, or sonnet to I)es- 
21 


242 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


pair,’ and introduced into the society of ele- 
gant and, as he thought, the most enchanting 
people on earth, and to the bustle and business 
of a large city. 

Judge Morse had been long and intimately 
acquainted with the father of William Forbes, 
and to that circumstance, the young student 
was indebted for the enviable privileges he en- 
joyed of being admitted to the family parties 
of the distinguished lawyer. Indeed, William 
was soon considered and treated as one of the 
family. (What an excellent passport to really 
good society those young people enjoy who 
have good parents.) William Forbes had 
promised to write particularly of all that befell 
him — all his adventures, and all his reflections 
were to be communicated to Elizabeth. But 
he soon found it very perplexing and disagree- 
able, if not impossible, to keep his word. He 
could describe the country tolerably well, and 
the people en masse — but to tell Elizabeth of 
all the parties, balls, &c., he attended would, he 
feared, make her unhappy in her retirement ; 
to tell her of the pretty and fascinating girls he 
met, might make her jealous. His amuse- 
ments, therefore, could not be described to 
Elizabeth. Neither w'ould his employments 
figure much better in an epistolary display. 
In all his studies at college she had participa- 
ted in inclination , if not in understanding — but 
Law — dry, musty, unintelligible, inexplicable 
Law — how could he make her comprehend 
what was to himself incomprehensible. He 
knew indeed, that she was so devoted to him 


WILLIAM FORBES 


243 


and his pursuits, that had she been near him 
she would, for his sake, have looked on the 
volumes of Blackstone without shuddering ; 
perhaps have looked into them sufficiently to 
have learned the difference between lex non 
scripta , and lex scripta. At any rate she would 
have been interested, and listened delightedly 
to the history of her lover’s progress in that 
study so exclusively masculine. But this sym- 
pathy could not be excited by a written corres- 
pondence ; so William relinquished the idea 
of describing his studies to Elizabeth. 

Most of our scholars pass their three years 
of preparation and four years at college, solely 
with the view of being better qualified for ac- 
tive life. Few, if any, are intending to devote 
themselves to science or the cultivation of ele- 
gant literature. The necessary details of busi- 
ness, and the feverish anxiety of politics, in a 
few years wholly engross their minds, and un- v 
less the memory be exceedingly tenacious, of 
all the rich hoards of Greek and Roman lore 
they had once boasted, only a few sparkling 
gems, kept for display, remain. This does not 
happen because Americans are incapable of 
comprehending the profound depths of science, 
or of appreciating and admiring the sublimities 
of genius — it is purely the effect of our situa- 
tion. With such a vast country to cultivate 
and control, unceasing activity is demanded, 
and there are, at present, no supernumeraries. 
Then the chance of success in public life is so 
tempting to the ambitious, — and who will not 
be ambitious, when there is a chance of sue- 


244 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


cess ? that almost all our men of talents are, at 
least once in their lives, members of Congress 
— in expectation, I mean. William Forbes 
had thus visited the Capitol, and been installed 
in the speaker’s chair before he had spent six 
months with Judge Morse. And that was a 
Quixotic speculation which he would by no 
means have been willing to communicate to 
Elizabeth. 

Thus the sources of confidence and sympa- 
thy seemed, on his part, constantly contracting, 
and he grew formal without intending it. If 
Elizabeth noticed this change she did not note 
it. She had much of that kind of good sense, 
commonly called sagacity, which means, the 
faculty of foreseeing consequences ; and she 
must have reflected that reproaches never have 
the effect of enkindling the passion of a lover , 
however they may operate on that of a husband. 
So she did not complain that William’s letters 
were cold, formal, short ; but she wrote often 
and affectionately, and described her business 
and her pleasures, her school and the neigh- 
bours, just as if she felt confident he would be 
interested in everything that concerned her. 
It was the best plan she could have adopted, 
to maintain her sway over the heart of William; 
and it served, notwithstanding the temptations 
by which he was surrounded, to keep him for 
more than two years, constant to the idea of 
making Elizabeth his wife. And though he 
might sometimes show a little more gallantry, 
than is usually displayed by an engaged man, 
towards the fair and fascinating ladies with 


WILLIAM FORBES. 


245 


whom he associated, and about whom he was 
often rallied, yet he never regretted his en- 
gagement, never, in his secret soul, meditated 
proving, what he did prove, — a traitor to his 
love ; — never till the fair Clarinda appeared. 
I must describe her. Clarinda Curtis was the 
daughter of a New-York merchant, a success- 
ful merchant, for at the age of twenty, he left 
the vicinity of the Green Mountain, with only 
two changes of apparel and two dollars in cash, 
and in thirty years, passed in the ( Commercial 
Emporium,’ he had acquired a princely for- 
tune. Clarinda was the only child by his first 
wife, and from her mother inherited a large 
estate. She was also rich, in expectations, 
from her maternal grandmother, by whom she 
had been brought up. Then she was beauti- 
ful, splendidly beautiful : tall, even to the ma- 
jestic, as Vermont beauties usually are, and so 
finely formed ! Her height she inherited from 
her father ; but the symmetry, so gracefully 
elegant, the rounded arm, taper fingers and 
slender foot, were not quite so strictly Ver- 
montese ; though these perfections are much 
oftener possessed by your rural lasses, than the 
city belle, or the more fastidious city beau, 
who is usually a perfect Chinese in his admi- 
ration of small feet, imagines possible. Clarin- 
da’s features, with one exception, were perfect 
as statuary could be moulded. Her forehead 
was too narrow and receding, but examined by 
the rules of art, no other fault could have been 
discovered. Arched eyebrows, Grecian nose, 
the rose-bud mouth, with the sweet curl on the 
21 * 


•346 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


upper lip that so easily and advantageously 
displays the white teeth — the round dimpled 
cheek, and exquisite chin, defying all adjec- 
tive descriptions of round or square, or long or 
short, — all we can say of it is, that it was 
shaped precisely as a beautiful chin should be. 
And these features were harmonized by a bril- 
liant complexion ; pure red and white, and both 
in their proper places ; and enlivened by a pair 
of blue eyes, of a softness that would have look- 
ed almost sleepy in a small girl, but belonging 
as they did, to a majestic beauty, seemed to 
throw an additional grace, the grace of repose 
over her loveliness. Fine, glossy, c nut brow r n’ 
hair, which she wore in a peculiarly becoming 
style, completed all we shall describe of her 
outward form of beauty. Alas, that this should 
be a show merely, not the index of inward ex- 
cellence, that this comeliness should not extend 
to mind ! Who can imagine such a lovely 
looking beinor as I have described and believe 
her a simpleton ! Yet Clarinda Curtis with all 
her charms, was a dunce; that thing which sen- 
sible and educated young men often admire for 
a mistress ; but which sensible and educated 
married men will always find exceedingly disa- 
greeable for a wife — an accomplished dunce ! 
Nature was not wholly in fault. The original 
constitution of her mind was undoubtedly dull, 
she was slow to comprehend — but then she was 
brought up by a doting grandmamma, and 
never, till she was full twelve years old, suffer- 
ed to do anything save to grow. Could her 
tender relative have spared her that trouble, 


WILLIAM FORBES. 


247 


she would, as she used often to express her 
fears that the poor child would weary herself 
w r ith so much stretching and yawning. At 
length Mr. Curtis interfered, and threatened to 
take his daughter home if she was not better 
instructed ; and frightened at the prospect of 
losing her darling, grandmamma resolved the 
child should learn everything. Masters of all 
kinds and professions were engaged, and pour- 
ed their lessons like a mingled flood over the 
unprepared mind of their pupil, till the few 
ideas, that had, by the kindly influence of na- 
ture, began to shoot, were deluged or uprooted, 
and no other ever had time to fix. All her 
knowledge seemed floating, unsystematized, 
and unconnected as the sentiments in a scrap- 
book, where, although you may have collected 
something on every subject, you can never be 
sure of finding that which is needed, or appro- 
priate to the subject under discussion. Not 
one of her numerous masters but was ashamed 
of their pupil, except the dancing master. 
Strange as it may seem, with her indolent hab- 
its, she did love to dance. The excitement of 
motion was so novel, she was in perfect ecsta- 
sies with dancing, and she soon danced grace- 
fully. For the rest, she could play a little, 
sing a little, draw a little, and speak a few 
French phrases ; but she could not have told 
whether Mexico was in North or South Ameri- 
ca; nor have subtracted 7 from 15 ; — nor wrote 
a letter of a dozen lines without mispelling as 
many words ; nor read a paragraph in a news- 
paper intelligibly She was a dunce ; and yet 


243 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


William Forbes, with all his learning and pene- 
tration, his taste and talent, did not discover 
it. She passed a fortnight with her aunt, 
(Mrs. Morse was her aunt,) and William saw 
her every day, and conversed with her every 
day, and fell in love with her, and never dis- 
covered she was a dunce. It was strange, he 
afterwards acknowledged, but then she was so 
beautiful it would have seemed profane to have 
doubted the elegance of her mind, the propriety 
and beauty of her thoughts. 

But though William was enchanted with her 
appearance, and actually in that most woful of 
all lover-like predicaments, engrossed with the 
charms of one fair maid, while he was enga- 
ged to marry another not so fair, he might, and 
I am inclined to believe he would have acted 
the honorable part, and been true to Elizabeth, 
had he not discovered that Clarinda was in love 
with him. How the discovery was made I do 
not know, but made it was, and William must 
have been a hero indeed if, besides subduing 
his own inclination, he could have rejected the 
beauty and fortune that seemed, as Judge 
Morse remarked, designed by Heaven to make 
him blest, and insure his success in the world. 

N. B. Judge Morse was not aware of the 
ignorance and indolence of his niece ; he had 
seen her but seldom, and heard her less ; for 
she had the good luck to be naturally taciturn, 
and real good luck it was, since her appear- 
ance was so much in her favor, that her silence 
was called eloquent. Had she spoke — but 
she rarely did, except in monosyllables. She 


WILLIAM FORBES. 


249 


was too indolent to converse. William Forbes 
married her, as all my readers know, but they 
do not know what mortifying disappointment 
he endured, when he found with what a 1 soul- 
less’ being he was destined to pass those hours 
of domestic intercourse his fancy had always 
painted as the most enviable privilege the mar- 
ried state afforded. Had she been, as many 
superficial ladies are, sprightly and amusing, he 
might have thought, as many men do, that 
learning was quite unnecessary for the sex ; 
but such indifference and inanity displayed 
her ignorance in the most glaring and disa- 
greeable point of view. She seemed unfeeling, 
because she could not enter into any of his 
ideas, or respond to his sentiments. With 
Elizabeth his intercourse had been so truly 
and purely that of intellect, their affection had 
been so founded on mutual esteem for each 
other’s capacity, that nothing but experience 
would have convinced him, that the love of 
rational and intelligent beings could be main- 
tained without some sympathy of mind. But he 
knew his wife loved him, and wished to please 
him, and that knowledge made him feel in- 
dulgent towards her ignorance, which he pitied 
more than he despised. So passed the time 
for a few months, and though not happy, yet 
he might have enjoyed the pride of being 
thought happy, as the having a handsome wife 
and rich wife, is pretty generally considered a 
passport to happiness, had he not unwisely ta- 
ken it into his head, that it was possible to 
make his bride wise. He thought she could im- 


250 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


prove, and that she would improve if she only 
knew how much his felicity depended on finding 
a companion in his wife ; and so he took a whole 
evening for the purpose, and gravely as a 
teacher, told her what he wished her to study 
and read, and how he expected she would join 
in the conversation with him and his friends, 
&.C., sketching precisely, though he might not 
be aware of it, the intellectual character of 
Elizabeth as a model for his Clarinda. He 
might with just as much reason have drawn 
the portrait of Clarinda’s beautiful features, 
and expected Elizabeth to mould hers by the 
picture. There is an old and quaint verse that 
I recollect reading when a child, which now 
frequently recurs to my mind when I witness 
some ridiculous displays of those who attempt 
to fill a niche for which nature never designed 
them. 

The man of wisdom may disguise 

His knowledge, and not seem too wise ) 

But take it for a constant rule 

There’s no disguising of a fool. 

There is no disguise for such an one but in 
silence ; and thrice blest are those simpletons 
who have the gift of silence. Clarinda pos- 
sessed it, but love, what will not the magical 
power of love effect ? loosened her tongue. 
Her husband requested she would read, and 
she determined to read ; her husband wished 
her to talk, and she resolved to talk. But un- 
fortunately, the jumble of ideas that had per- 
vaded her head, ever since she underwent the 
penalty of listening to the lectures of six differ- 


WILLIAM FOKBES. 


251 


ent masters in the course of the twenty-four 
hours, besides her grandmamma’s advice to re- 
member all she heard, had so confounded her 
memory and understanding, originally weak, 
that though she read, she could neither com- 
pare, reflect or generalize ; and when she at- 
tempted to introduce in her conversation, any 
thought she had gathered from books, it was 
done with such an effort, and her quotations 
were so inappropriate, that her ignorance was 
never so apparent as in her learned phrases. 
Then she had the habit into which your poor 
conversationalists usually fall, namely, asking 
questions. I know nothing more disagreeable 
that does not absolutely shock one’s princi- 
ples, than to be subjected to the society of a 
questioner. And William Forbes disliked it 
exceedingly, but nevertheless, he bore with his 
wife’s questions for a long time magnanimous- 
ly, hoping she would, as she gained informa- 
tion, become capable of maintaining a conver- 
sation without such ‘ questionable’ aid. He 
hoped in vain. She never, in society, could 
speak upon any subject but by a question, and 
the more confidence she gained in her own pow- 
ers, and the more she conversed, the more 
ridiculously her questions were distributed 
among her acquaintance. How often did her 
husband wish, while his cheeks were glowing 
with shame at some blunder she had commit- v 
ted, that he had never urged her to talk. And 
she did it to please him — what could he say ? 
No matter what the subject of conversation 


*252 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


was, she would question. To give a few in- 
stances. One day when an eminent counsellor 
dined with Mr. Forbes, they happened, in their 
legal disquisitions to allude to a writ of fi. fa. 
and Mrs. Forbes eagerly demanded if that 
writ was not made against a singing master ? 
At another time, she asked a lawyer, with a 
real compassionate voice, if John Doe and 
Richard Roe, could not take advantage of the 
insolvent act ? — Those blunders to be sure, 
related to matters which a lady is not obliged 
to understand, yet she should understand 
enough to say nothing when they are introduc- 
ed ; but another blunder she made, could not 
be so easily excused. Her husband was ap- 
pointed to deliver the address before an Agri- 
cultural Society, and proud enough she was 
of the honor conferred upon him. She could 
talk of nothing else, and among her host of 
questions on the occasion, she asked a cele- 
brated rearer of merinos, why he did not ob- 
tain some cotton-wool-sheep and exhibit at the 
show ? 

I mention these circumstances that young 
men, intelligent and educated young men, may 
be warned against marrying a dunce, though 
she may be beautiful and rich, and affectionate, 
yet if she be a dunce — 4 she must, she will bring 
shame and sorrow’ on her husband. And young 
ladies — is there not a lesson to them in this ex- 
hibition ? Do they not feel that though they 
may be beautiful and rich, and married to the 
man they love, and who returns their affections, 


WILLIAM FORBES. 


253 


yet, unless they have cultivated and improved 
their minds, they cannot make their husband 
happy or respectable. 

Mrs. Forbes suddenly died during the tenth 
year of her marriage, and those who think her 
husband rejoiced, will do him foul wrong. He 
shed tears of unaffected sorrow over her pale 
corpse, for he felt she loved him, and that the 
pang of death to her was separation from him. 
But then his grief was not of that deep, endur- 
ing kind which is cherished by the survivor 
when kindred minds are torn asunder. He 
grieved that his wife should die more for her 
sake than his own, or that of his two little 
daughters, to whom he knew she never could 
have been a competent instructress 1 or mother. 
And we may conclude that he did not think 
riches and beauty were the most important 
qualifications a wife could possess, because, as 
soon as decency would permit, he wrote to as- 
certain if Elizabeth Brooks was still at liberty 

4 What answer did Elizabeth give V 

She said no ! unhesitatingly, as any woman 
of refinement and delicacy treated as she had 
been, would say. 

But Mr. Bennett would not send her answer 
to his nephew, would not allow that she could 
decide on so important a point without first see- 
ing William Forbes. ‘ I wish my nephew to 
visit me,’ continued Mr. Bennett, ‘ and if I send 
him your rejection he will not come to New 
Hampshire. No, no, Elizabeth, we will give 
him a hearing before we pronounce his doom.’ 

S2 


254 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


William accordingly came. A noble looking 
man he was ; it seemed that his manly beauty 
had improved by years. There was a strik- 
ing contrast between his appearance and that 
of Elizabeth. He had a fine commanding fig- 
ure, his black eyes were still as bright, and 
black hair as glossy as ever, only around his 
temples it had grown thinner, and gave to his 
ample forehead a more judicial dignity. She 
was slender and pale, or rather inclining to 
yellow ; our villainous climate, cold winters 
and rough winds, soon tarnish a fair complex- 
ion. But then Elizabeth’s countenance looked 
so animated and intelligent, that I really be- 
lieve William Forbes thought her comely, for 
he gazed on her with the look of a lover regard- 
ing a beautiful girl. 

That appealing look, or his eloquence, he 
was said to be a very eloquent pleader, and 
doubtless taxed his persuasive powers in the 
suit he was urging, finally obtained him the vic- 
tory. Elizabeth, however, told Mr. Bennett, 
the day before she was married, that she should 
not have consented to wed Mr. Forbes but for 
the sake of his children, his little girls who, he 
said, so much needed her care and instruc- 
tions. Thus by appealing a little to her pro- 
fessional pride, for all successful instructers are 
somewhat proud of their vocation, the lawyer 
succeeded, and carried home a sensible and 
intelligent woman, and was never afterwards 
ashamed to invite his friends to a dinner party 
lest they should discover his wife was a dunce. 


WILLIAM FORBES 


255 


Reader., the ( Sketch’ is finished ; and I think 
it proper to announce it, lest those who read to 
the end of the article should pronoucc it dull, 
merely because it is long. What follows is in- 
tended entirely for the ladies ; gentlemen , there- 
fore, will please to pass it over. Gentlemen 
never indulge their curiosity about the forbid- 
den, so I feel perfectly secure they will not read 
the next two pages. But the ladies must read 
them. 

In the preface to the Tillage Schoolmistress 
were some remarks which, either from their 
novelty or the ambiguous manner in which 
they were expressed, will not, I fear, be under- 
stood in the sense intended. I did not mean 
that there was no difference in the minds of 
women. I believe, in the original conforma- 
tion of soul, there exists as much dissimilarity 
among women as men — and the reason that the 
original capacity is not more distinctly de- 
veloped and displayed, is wholly to be attribu- 
ted to the situation of the female sex. There 
is for them but one pursuit. Of what use is it 
for us to deny the fact, that it is in the marriage 
establishment only, that woman seeks her hap- 
piness and expects her importance, when all 
iiistory and our own observation, confirm it to be 
the truth. It is not so with men, — they have 
more than one medium through which to seek 
for fortune, fame and happiness, and that is, in 
my opinion, the sole reason of their superiority 
of mind over us. How I do wish women would 
be sensible of this, and endeavour to find or 
make an employment, consistent with propriety 


256 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


— that must, never be relinquished ; — which 
would give to their minds strength and dignity, 
the strength and dignity which is acquired from 
exertion and self-dependence. But while wo- 
men imagine they are gaining importance, and 
are flattered with those compliments on their in- 
tellectual progress, which the gentlemen some- 
times deign to bestow, they seem perfectly un- 
conscious that they have not made one step of 
advancement in the scale of society, or at least, 
they are only engaged in the same occupations, 
namely, that of canvassing fashions and super- 
intending household affairs, which occupied the 
sex a thousand years ago. I do not say women 
have not more learning, that they do not read 
more, but pray tell me what difference this has 
created in their pursuits ? except to make them 
less useful — because they now, many of them, 
think that to ‘work with their hands’ is disgrace- 
ful for ladies, and yet there is no employment 
provided, in which they can exercise their tal- 
ents and learning advantageously — or indeed, 
at all. I would rouse them from this supine- 
ness, — I would have them seek some employ- 
ment, have some aim that will, by giving ener- 
gy to their minds, and the prospect of an 
honorable independence, should they choose 
to continue single, make them less dependent 
on marriage as the means of support. 

They will then really improve, because their 
minds will have a wider circle in which to move 
and act. Women might succeed in many o f 
the fine arts ; but still, I think the business of 
instruction, the one best fitted to their charac- 


WILLIAM F „£ES. 


257 


ter, to the situation, which they must, indeed, 
ought to hold in society, because it was evident- 
ly assigned them by their Creator. It was for 
these reasons I urged upon their consideration 
the importance of school -keeping. 

I seek to promote the happiness and the best 
interest of my sex ; but I do not think that hap- 
piness, or those interests will be advanced by 
flattering women that they are angels , or that 
they have, as yet, much claim to a mental 
equality with men, if equality consist in the 
exertion of mind. We have reason, but we sel- 
dom use it ; we might about as well be guided 
by instinct. We proceed day after day, and 
year after year in the same routine, without 
exhibiting one original idea. All new dis- 
coveries and inventions are made by the men ; 
even the chemical combinations in cookery, 
and their causes, are unknown to almost every 
female, to those who have cooked all their days. 
We do not think — there is the fault of our edu- 
cation — we are not taught by necessity, — the 
necessity that arises to men in their diversi- 
fied pursuits, — to reflect. 7 


22 * 


A WINTER IN THE COUNTRY. 


‘ My country, thou art free— the orient wave, 

Albeit perfumed by India’s spicy gales, 

Floats round the land where dwells the crouching slave, 
Where rapine prowls, and tyranny prevails — 

But here, in Freedom’s green and peaceful vales, 

Man with his fellow mortal proudly copes ; 

No despot’s will the peasant’s home assails, 

Nor stalks th’ oppressor o’er its pastoral slopes, 

Nor reaps the stranger’s hand the harvest of his hopes.' 

Did you ever live in the country ? I don’t 
mean a residence of some six or seven weeks, 
just to escape the burning, boiling, stifling at- 
mosphere of the crowded city, when the ther- 
mometer stands at 93° in the shade, and clouds 
of dust render promenading through Washing- 
ton Street almost as dangerous as would be a 
march through the desert, to explore the ruins 
of Palmyra. But there is the Mall. Oh ! the 
Mall is unfashionable ; — and what lady, having 
a proper sense of her own dignity and delicacy, 
but would prefer suffocating at home, to the 
horror of a refreshing walk in an unfashiona- 
ble place ? They must resort to the country. 
But never should those ladies imagine their 
experience of pastoral life, makes them com- 
petent to decide on rural pleasures and rural 
characters \ or gives them the right to bestow 


A WINTER IN THE COUNTRY. 


*259 


those convenient epithets, dull, ignorant, plod- 
ding, on our country farmers, or uneducated, 
unfashionable, dowdyish, on their wives and 
daughters. 

Summer and autumn are the seasons, during 
which our city people visit the country. In 
summer all who feel a sensibility for the beauti- 
ful, are charmed. The green woods, the flow- 
ery fields, the soft lulling waters and calm bright 
skies, are successively admired and eulogized. 
The sweet scenery is extolled, be-rhymed, 
sketched — left and forgotten. Autumn scene- 
ry makes a far deeper impression on the feel- 
ings. There is something in the decay of na- 
ture that awakens thought, even in the most, 
trifling mind. The person who can regard the 
changes in the forest foliage, — that can watch 
the slow circles of the dead leaf, as it falls from 
the bough of some lofty tree, till it mingles with 
the thousands already covering the ground be- 
neath, and not moralize is — not a person that 
I would advise to retire to the country, in 
search of happiness. He or she had better stay 
in the city and be amused. Those who cannot 
think, have, in my opinion, a necessity (which 
goes very far towards creating a right) for 
amusement. 

But the season when the scenery of the coun- 
try makes the most delightful impression on the 
traveller’s senses, or awakens his mind to re- 
flection, is not the time to form a correct esti- 
mate of the social pleasures and mental advan- 
tages, which the inhabitants in our interior 
towns enjoy. Labor, unceasing labor is, dur- 


260 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


ing summer and autumn, the lot of the farmer, 
and usually of all his family. The city lady or 
gentleman, who visits in the country, regards 
this industry as oppressive, almost slavish. 
And truly it is sometimes so ; — but still there 
is a satisfaction to those industrious people, in 
seeing how much their hands have accomplish- 
ed ; and there is a positive pleasure in the rest 
that night allows, and above all, which the Sab- 
bath brings, that persons ever occupied in 
amusements or busy about trifles, cannot com- 
prehend, any better than a blind man could the 
effect of colors on the eye. I may be told, 
that such happiness only refers to animal sen- 
sations, that mind has no part in the bliss which 
mere respite from the plough allows the farmer, 
any more than to the repose it brings the cat- 
tle that assisted his labors. If mind had no in- 
fluence to prompt his industry, this might be 
true ; but our American yeomanry are lords of 
the soil they till, — they ‘ call no man master on 
earth,’ — they are in fact, the acknowledged 
sovereigns of this vast country, — they are, in 
our republic, entitled to respect, from their 
station ; and those who affect to look down up- 
on the farmer and his family, to despise and ridi- 
cule the country people, exhibit a spirit which, 
if it be refined and delicate, is neither enlight- 
ened, liberal or patriotic. The truth is, such 
fastidious persons know little, if anything, about 
the country ; not much more than did Owen 
Ashley, when he first entered as a partner in 
the store of Mr. Silsby, merchant in the village 
of ; situated about thirty miles west 


A WINTER IN THE COUNTRY. 261 

of the Green Mountains. Owen Ashley was 
Boston born and educated ; and was in truth, as 
fine a gentleman as could be found in the city. 
He was also endowed with very good abilities, 
and had he not indulged an over-weaning 
conceit of the privilege he enjoyed, in being a 
native of the metropolis of New England, he 
would have been a very sensible young man. 

His father had been reputed very rich, and 
his failure in 1813, was wholly ascribed to the 
pressure of the times. A time of calamity it 
undoubtedly was, to many of our citizens, but 
none seemed more conspicuously marked by 
misfortune, than the elder Mr. Ashley. His 
real losses were not so great as was reported. 
He had for many years lived beyond his in- 
come, and it therefore required but a slight 
shock of his mercantile credit to embarrass 
him ; and when the downward course was once 
begun, he had no means of retarding the ca- 
tastrophe. But I am not intending to sketch 
the old gentleman ; only as his failure was the 
cause of inducing his son Owen, to emigrate 
to that £ unknown bourne’ to most of the native 
Bostonians, the land of the Green Mountains, 
it was necessary to mention it. Such an un- 
precedented adventure required a reasonable 
motive for its justification, or I might be ac- 
cused of giving the creations of fancy, rather 
than sketches of real characters. 

£ Is it true, Ashley, that you are intending 
to leave the city ?’ inquired Edward Paine, as 
he took the arm of the former on quitting the 
theatre. 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


262 

‘ Yes, such is my intention,’ replied Owen, in 
a low tone. 

‘ When do you go ?’ 

‘ To-morrow.’ 

‘ To-morrow,’ ejaculated Edward in astonish- 
ment. ‘ Why, Ashley, you cannot be serious. 
Have you forgotten the party at Mrs. Dray- 
ton’s to-morrow evening ? Maria said she was 
particularly anxious to see you, and she has 
been arranging to have some delightful music ; 
those songs and airs you so much admire, 
to charm you if possible, from this preposterous 
plan of self-banishment.’ 

c My dear friend, what else can I do ?’ sighed 
the discontented Owen. ‘ I have no funds to 
support me in the city. My father is a bank- 
rupt by thousands. At his age, it will not be 
expected he should enter into new specula- 
tions, and his friends are prepared to assist 
him. He must, for the present, accept their 
aid. But what is excusable for him, would be 
a disgrace to me. I must engage in business ; 
but I can do nothing here. Neither is the en- 
couragement for honest adventurers in any of 
our cities, at all more flattering. The Vermont 
merchant, has made me a very generous offer, 
and I must either accept it, or enlist for a 
soldier, I see no other alternative.’ 

‘ 1 think, to shoulder the musket would be to 
me the least horrible of the two,’ replied Paine, 
as they entered his lodgings together. ‘ I 
declare,’ continued the little beau, as he ar- 
ranged his hair at the mirror, with a very sell 
satisfied expression of face ‘ I declare it is 


A WINTER IN TIIE COUNTRY. 


263 


abominable, Ashley, that such a fine fellow as 
you are, should be driven from all good society, 
and sent among the bears of Vermont. If I 
only thought the war was a just one, I would 
urge you to enlist as a soldier.’ 

‘ I have similar feelings of disgust, when 
thinking of my destination,’ said Owen. c And 
yet I fear it is wrong, even absurd to indulge 
in them. This Mr. Silsby, is a noble-minded 
fellow, and a noble looking one too. Indeed, 
quite the gentleman in his manners ; and it 
cannot be, that he lives among savages. Have 
I ever told you the reason of his kindness to- 
wards me ?’ 

‘ Not as I recollect.’ 

‘ There is an air of romance about the busi- 
ness,’ replied Owen, smiling, ‘ that promises 
well for me ; because 1 never read any similar 
preface, without a fortunate denouement. You 
must know, that some twenty years since, this 
same Mr. Silsby, who had been in trade but a 
short time, came here to sell a drove of cattle, 
and purchase a stock of goods. He had traded 
with my father from the first, and was then 
considerably in his debt. The day after he 
arrived in the city with his cattle, there came 
a sheriff with demands from people in Ver- 
mont, and attached the whole drove. Mr. 
Silsby applied to my father, and stated, that the 
proceeding was the work of an enemy who 
was seeking to ruin him and supplant him in 
his business. This man, Silsby said, had been 
circulating false reports against him # affecting 


264 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


his credit, and by that means had frightened 
those men from whom he had purchased cattle, 
and who were to wait his return, and had in- 
duced them to send on their demands after 
him. He said, if his property was thus attach- 
ed, and sold at auction, it would ruin him, but 
that if he had the money to satisfy those de- 
mands, the market was good, and he should be 
able to pay the loan before he left the city. 
My father was a generous spirited man, and 
he had moreover, a most thorough detestation 
of all meaji, paltry, villainous tricks ; and he 
advanced the money without hesitation. I 
have since heard him remark, that had Silsby 
shown the agitation when he came to borrow 
the money, which he did when he came to pay 
it, he should have thought him a weak, timid 
man, and though he might not have doubted 
his honesty, he should most probably have re- 
fused to assist him. When he appeared to 
solicit the favor, he was to be sure very pale ; 
but his air was perfectly collected and his 
countenance firm. But when, after a very 
successful speculation in the sale of his cattle, 
he entered, and taking out his pocket-book fill- 
ed with bank notes, he asked my father to pay 
himself, and added, a you sir, have saved me 
from a failure, from disgrace, perhaps from a 
gaol he burst into tears. He appeared so 
overcome by his feelings, that my father in a 
lively tone attempted to reassure him, by say- 
ing, that what he had done had been no incon- 
venience, that it did not deserve even a single 


A WINTER IN THE COUNTRY. 265 

{-hank ye — “but” added he, “if you think it 
has been of so much benefit to you, why I am 
the person who should feel obliged, because, 
through your means I have performed a good 
action so very cheaply.” This reasoning, how- 
ever, did not seem to soothe the feelings of the 
Vermont merchant, — he appeared distressed 
with his gratitude, till at last, my father said, — 
“ Mr. Silsby, we will think no more of this mat- 
ter now, — I may hereafter want your assistance, 
or my boy may. It is to me a sufficient reward, 
that I have obliged an honest man, and gained 
a good friend.” Mr. Silsby looked up at these 
words and called me to him. I was then but 
four years old, but I remember it as though it 
were but yesterday. He called me to him, 
took me on his knee, and bent his face down to 
mine. I remember hearing him whisper, but 
what he said I did not understand. He then 
kissed my cheek — and so ended the tragi- 
comedy . 7 

‘ You think , 7 said Edward Paine, attempting 
to smile, while something like moisture con- 
globed in his eye, ‘you think that this good- 
hearted Yankee then, made a vow to assist you 
if ever his kindness was necessary ? 7 

‘ I have no doubt of it. And though he has 
never mentioned the circumstance of the loan, 
he never forgot while my mother lived, to make 
her an annual present. One year he would 
bring a fat turkey so large, that we were 
sometimes inclined to call it a different species 
from those to be found in the market — then 
23 


266 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


would come a firkin of most excellent butter, 
the balls all made up in a particular form, with 
a very curious stamp on each ball, and some- 
times he would send a cheese, which f used to 
believe when a child, was precisely the size of 
the moon ; and so indelibly has that idea fixed 
itself in my mind, that I now never see the full- 
orbed luminary of night, without thinking of a 
Vermont cheese.’ 

‘ What does he propose to do for you ?’ in- 
quired Edward. 1 I should say, from what you 
have related, that he was a very good sort of a 
man, but whether you would like a residence 
with him, is another affair. I suppose he has 
a wife, and at least a dozen children of his 
own ?’ 

‘ No, he is so singular as still to be a single 
man. He met with a disappointment of the 
heart, I have heard my mother say, soon after 
she became acquainted with him. The young 
lady to whom he was engaged, died of a con- 
sumption. He brought her to Boston, during 
her illness, and she spent several weeks with 
my mother. I remember seeing the young 
lady ; and I remember well how my mother 
wept, when Mr. Silsby came and carried her 
away; and that she told my father she wept 
for the sorrow the young man would soon 
endure, because, though he flattered himself 
with hopes, the young lady would never live to 
reach home. And she did not. Mr. Silsby 
has never married, and so we have reason to 
think he still remembers his* flrst love, — and I 


A WINTER IN THE COUNTRY. 267 

am so romantic, that I confess I respect him 
for his constancy.’ 

‘ He probably intends to make you his heir, 
if he has no family. Is he rich ?’ asked Ed- 
ward with an expression of interest in the in- 
quiry, his face had not before exhibited. 

4 Yes, he is rich for the country ; but I am 
not intending to play the part of heir expect- 
ant. The fawning smile, the equivocal speech 
of such a parasite, is to me, most contempti- 
ble. Mr. Silsby merits my gratitude much 
more, than if he had promised to give me his 
fortune, because he seems anxious to en- 
courage, and enable me to earn a fortune for 
myself. He offers to take me as a partner, 
and allow me one half the profits of his busi- 
ness simply for my assistance. And he seems 
eager too, to save me from all mortification of 
wanting a capital, by repeating how much he 
needs my help as an accountant, — that he is 
tired of being always harassed, &c.; and that 
is what I call perfect charity. ’Tis a virtue 
rarely practised. Most people seem to think 
that if they aid you in an enterprise, your feel- 
ings are of no consequence. But I esteem 
that delicate kindness which spares me the 
consciousness of my present dependence as the 
greatest favor 1 can receive. Yes, Silsby is a 
noble-hearted man, and I only wish he lived 
among civilized beings.’ 

4 O ! ’tis abominable to think you must go 
to Vermont,’ said Edward Paine, 1 uttoning 
his coat up closely as though the blast from the 


268 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


Green Mountain even in thought, had power 
to freeze his spirit. 4 Why, my dear fellow, 
do you not postpone your travels till next 
spring?’ 

4 Because I am impatient to know the worst. 
I hate this procrastination of fate. It is to my 
feelings more insupportable than actual mise- 
ry. I shall go to-morrow.’ 

4 0 ! not to-morrow — Allow one more eve- 
ning to your friends — to pleasure — to life. 
Consider that you will not soon have another 
opportunity of listening to the 44 concord of 
sweet sounds.” You will hear no music beyond 
those rude hills, except the piping of the wintry 
winds, or a serenade of wild cats.’ 

Owen shook his head, and attempted to 
speak gaily while he replied — 4 Thank you, 
Edward, for your solicitude. It speaks well 
for your heart ; but my judgment must not 
yield, even to your affection. If I have any 
merit, entitling me to the confidence of my 
friends, it is, that when I have taken a resolu- 
tion on conviction of its fitness, I will adhere 
to it. So farewell. And when you and my 
young companions meet, pray remember, that 
in spirit I am with you.’ 

4 Letters, we shall expect, — letters contain- 
ing all your adventures and discoveries in that 
terra incognita,’ said Edward, pressing his 
friend’s hand as they parted, 4 or we shall con- 
clude you have positively given up the ghost, 
actually died of the maladie du pays.’ 

4 Yes, you shall have letters,’ was the reply ; 


A WINTER IN THE COUNTRY. 


2C9 


and how well the promise was fulfilled, the 
extracts with which I shall conclude the sketch, 
will prove. The whole correspondence ought 
to be given, but — that may be done hereafter, 
if this sample proves acceptable to public taste. 
At present, I shall only select such letters and 
passages as will mark most distinctly, the effect 
which country scenes and characters, had up- 
on the mind and feelings of my hero. 

* * * # # 

Vermont, Dec. 23. — £ I am here you see 
my dear Edward, — and alive and well, and in 
no danger of dying from disgust, or ennui, or 
even the maladie du pays. To account for 
such a phenomenon, I will just tell you truly 
of my tour, and describe my present resi- 
dence. 

I started, as you well know in company with 
Mr. Silsby, in his sleigh. Well, we travelled 
silently on, he immersed in his mercantile 
speculations I suppose, and I deeply engaged 
in planning letters, in which I intended to ex- 
ert all my fancy, to portray the savage and 
wild scenes I should traverse, and the uncouth 
beings I should meet, in a style of elegant 
pleasantry, that would divert my friends. I 
remember now nothing of those fancies, except 
that I intended to introduce the witticism, that 
the farther I travelled west , the more I became 
convinced the wise men must have come from 
the east , — and another one, in which I was to 
23* 


270 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


represent the immense benefit my journey 
would be to science, as the elevation of the 
country where I resided, had actually permitted 
me to discover five new stars, one of which, I 
was convinced must be the lost Pleiad. 

During these thoughts, if such reveries de- 
serve the name of thought, I examined coolly — 
you must allow, for I was half frozen, the 
country through which I was travelling. I 
was never before in the interior of the country. 
Never before at a greater distance than thirty 
miles from Boston, except when I went by 
water to visit our Atlantic cities. I expected 
that the farther I receded from the sea shore, 
the more rude and uncultivated the land and 
the people would be. Edward, I was never 
so disappointed in my life. And I would with 
pleasure describe some of the beautiful vil- 
lages, beautiful even in winter, and country 
seats I passed on my route hither, — but your 
city prejudices would discredit me. Come 
and see the country for yourself. Come in 
the summer, if to see is all you are anxious 
about ; but Mr. Silsby says, that if you wish 
to partake the social enjoyments of the country 
in their perfection, winter is the season. But 
come. Do not permit even the terror of 
journeying over the Green Mountains to deter 
you. I had pictured the passage as an exploit 
similar to that of Hannibal’s famous march 
over the Alps, — with this trifling difference, 
that the destiny of nations was involved in his 
experiment of forcing his array of men and 


A WINTER IN THE COUNTRY, 271 

elephants over those frozen heights, while I, 
riding at my ease, wrapped in a trio of buffalo 
skins, had nothing, but the vjulgar business of 
studying my own comfort and preserving my 
own life and limbs, to attend to. Still I thought 
the adventure must be of some consequence. 
There must be, said I to myself, rugged 
precipices and narrow defiles, and yawning 
chasms, and perhaps a glacier or two. I had 
never heard the latter particularly named as 
being among the terrors of the Green Moun- 
tain ; the epithet Green , did not seem applica- 
ble to a mountain of ice, — but yet I might 
discover a glacier. Edward, I was never so 
disappointed in my life, indeed I was really 
angry, when, after reaching that stupendous 
scene of c mountains piled on mountains,’ a 
few hours driving, up hill and down to be sure, 
and through a cold, dismal looking fir region, 
but on a good turnpike road, and without a sin- 
gle accident of any kind, Mr. Silsby announc- 
ed, that we had crossed the Green Mountains. 
Here was a finale to all my hopes of being 
immortalized by escaping an avalanche. “All’s 
well,” thought I, what an ignoble catastrophe, 
that I should pass that barrier of civilisation 
and have no report to make but that “ all’s 
well !” 

I might mention some peculiarities of the 
scenery, that would interest you by contrast, 
at least, for it is very different in character to 
that by which you are surrounded. But the 
impression it has made on my mind, is favorable 


272 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


to the country through which I have passed, — 
very favorable in comparison with the images 
of savageness, desolation, rudeness and pover- 
ty, which I had always drawn of this part of 
New England ; and which I know your fancy 
will still conjure up whenever Vermont is 
named. So we will let the country pass, and 
turn to the people. 

My Mentor was not at all communicative on 
our journey. He seemed, as I thought, to be 
rather averse to answering my inquiries re- 
specting the inhabitants of the good town, 
where I was to make my debut. I imputed 
this reserve, to his admiration of my knowledge 
and accomplishments. He has, thought I, al- 
ready discovered that the society of his villa- 
gers, will be to my refined taste, “ flat and un- 
profitable,” — he is ashamed of the people to 
whom he is about to introduce me ; — for his 
sake, for he is really a good-hearted man, I 
will try and be civil to his friends ; but I will 
not permit those bumpkins to treat me with 
familiarity. Such were my reflections when, 
just as the sun was setting, on the fourth day 
of our journey, Mr. Silsby aroused me from my 
self-complacent mood, by saying we were with- 
in six miles of his home. 

“ Have you a good hotel or boarding-house 
in your town ?” said I. 

“We have a tavern,” he replied, — “but I 
have engaged your board in a private family, 
where I lodge myself — with Colonel Gage. He 
is one of our best men — a real Yankee farmer.” 


A WINTER IN TIIE COUNTRY. 


273 


“ Good heavens ! ” thought I,— ct am I to 
board in a farmer’s family? ” 

! believe the nervousness of my mind, was 
apparent in my countenance, for Mr. Silsby, 
after regarding me a minute or two, said very 
calmly — “ If you should not be satisfied with 
your lodgings, Mr. Ashley, you can easily 
change. But I wish you to spend a week with 
me.” 

The day had been cold and gloomy, and 
soon after sunset, the whole horizon was over- 
cast, and a thick darkness coming on, it be- 
came necessary to drive slowly, and the miles 
seemed to me as long as they say Scotch ones 
are. We occasionally passed very comforta- 
ble looking houses, the bright windows, promis- 
ing warmth and gladness within, — but I had 
no interest in their joys — I felt chilled even to 
the heart, I felt like a stranger — where were 
my friends, my home, my own bustling city ? 
Could I, at that time, have had the power, 
which I have often coveted, of transporting 
myself by a wish, to whatever place I desired, 
very certain I am, that I should have been in 
Boston with the speed of Clavileno, and with a 
resolution never again to venture beyond the 
Green Mountains. W hen the sleigh stopped 
at the door of Colonel Gage, I was just in that 
peevish mood engendered by hunger, cold, fa- 
tigue and discontent, which makes a man the 
most unreasonable creature on earth. I de- 
termined to hate my host and all his family, 
and find fault with everything There was a 


274 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


secret pleasure in thinking I should have cause 
to find fault, — and that was all I expected to 
enjoy. 

We were met at the door by the Colonel 
himself. He gave Mr. Silsby a very brother- 
ly greeting, and when I was named, grasped 
my hand with such warmth, such kindness, that 
the pressure actually sent a glow through my 
shivering frame, — Edward, it reached my soul 
in spite of my prejudices, I do believe our spir- 
its know their friends. He never relinquished 
my hand till we had entered the room, where 
he introduced me to his wife, his daughter, 
and five sons, of all ages from sixteen down 
to six. 

Well, Edward, you expect a description of 
the family. Wait a month, and then I can 
judge more accurately. I have been here now 
but four days ; perhaps I shall reverse my pre- 
sent opinion. I do not care to be called an 
enthusiast — or a lover. I never will be con- 
vinced of an error by my feelings only. I 
must have a reason to render for every change 
in my judgment of men and things. But thus 
much I will say, and it is what I should once 
have thought impossible, — I am in a country 
village in Vermont, living in a farmer’s family, 
and yet — I am very happy.’ 

January 23d. — 

“ Convince a man against his will, 

He’s of the same opinion still ” 


A WINTER IN TIIE COUNTRY. 


275 


c There is truth in that couplet, my dear Ed- 
ward, — more than is always contained in wise 
proverbs. ( It is a very difficult affair to con- 
vince a person who has not only made up his 
mind on a subject, but defended his position 
with all the strength of his logic, that he has 
mistaken the causes or consequences of his 
system. Were it not for this tenaciousness of 
the human mind to maintain and uphold what 
it has received as truth, and defended as truth, 
even after convinced that it is not true, there 
might be reasonable grounds to hope that men 
would, in time, reach that perfection which is 
now considered possible, only by the visionary 
philosopher, or the credulous philanthropist. 
But I mean to prove, that it is practicable to 
overcome the prejudices of education, or situa- 
tion rather. I will cite my own change of 
opinion, as proof that we may, if we will be 
open to conviction, correct our errors of sen- 
timent. The person who believes he has no 
errors of opinion, must be a fool, — and he 
who will not correct them, when discovered, 
will never be wise. 

When I was a tiny boy I thought, as our city 
children do, that the country was a place of 
woods, filled with bears and other wild animals, 
and I regarded the country people as objects 
of compassion, because they were obliged to 
live in such a place. This, you will say, was 
a childish notion, but I always retained the 
idea, that the advantages of a polite education 
were, in New England, confined to Boston and 


276 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


its vicinity. A few weeks’ residence here 
has convinced me, and therefore I acknowledge 
it, that a young lady may possess a refined 
taste, and cultivated mind and manners, may 
be accomplished in your sense of that fashion- 
able word, without even having been beyond 
the atmosphere of Vermont ; and that country 
farmers may be men of intelligence and litera- 
ture, may be well-bred and agreeable, in short, 
gentlemen in manners and conversation. You 
recollect saying that I should hear no music 
in this region, save the piping of the winds, or 
the shrieks of wild cats. Why, Edward, — I 
listen to the notes of a piano-forte every day ; 
and the sweet girl who plays it with a taste ana 
skill I scarce ever heard exceeded, never was 
out of Vermont in her life ! You may stare, 
you must not disbelieve. When I first saw 
the instrument, the evening of my arrival, I 
thought Mr. Silsby must have purchased it at 
some auction in Boston, and removed it to 
the country to astonish the natives. I have 
since been told, and am convinced, that there 
are but very few villages in this state or in 
New Hampshire, but what have at least one 
family, often several, whose daughters are in- 
structed to play the piano-forte. I do not men- 
tion this as redounding vastly to their praise, 
because I think the accomplishment, delightful 
as it is, is often too dearly purchased ; but I 
wish you to know, that the city belles do not 
monopolize all the advantages of such accom- 
plishments. And I wish also to correct ypui 


i 


A WINTER IN THE COUNTRY. 


277 


ideas respecting the wealth and intelligence, 
the manners and refinement of this portion of 
our Union. 

In the dwelling of Colonel Gage, large, 
thoroughly finished, and furnished, even filled 
full from garret to cellar, I see nothing that 
would shock your taste save the large fire- 
places, and an old-fashioned, armed chair in the 
sitting room. The latter, Colonel Gage would 
tell you he prized, because it was his father’s 
before him, and the former he would say, were 
necessary for the climate. But I confess they 
alarmed me a little, especially the first time I 
saw the kitchen fire. I was passing the door, 
when hearing a roaring like that of flame, I 
stepped in — and such a blaze I never saw on 
any hearth before. I hastily demanded of the 
housemaid, if there was an engine at hand. 
She understood me to say Indian — and replied, 
that there had never been an Indian in town 
since she could remember. After I made her 
comprehend my meaning, the matter was no 
better, for neither had she even seen an engine. 
In the theory of extinguishing fires, therefore, 
I found I was vastly superior to the Vermont- 
ers, but in the skill of kindling (or building as 
they term it, and truly, the pile of maple wood 
looks like a building,) one I was quite as infe- 
rior — so on the whole I had nothing to boast. 
But now I have become accustomed to these 
bright, blazing hearths, I do admire them. 
There is a generous hospitality in their light, 
and they inspire a cheerfulness of feeling, which 
24 


273 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


is, as I think, the chief reason why the country 
people are never troubled with ennui or dis- 
pepsia. ‘ Sin and sea-coal ’ you know, are 
proverbially united ; and according to the poet, 
Melancholy dwells only 

‘ Where brooding darkness spreads his jealous wings. ‘ 

Which never happens, I assure you, in a Yan- 
kee farmer’s house, except when the inmates 
are asleep. 

I am convinced that winter is the season 
to visit the country, if you wish to become 
acquainted with the true character of the in- 
habitants. They are then freed in a great mea- 
sure, from that hurry and care which, often in 
the seasons of flowers, clouds their faces with 
anxiety, and amid the profusion of the harvest, 
which they must toil and sweat to gather, makes 
them look sad and weary. These labors are 
closed when the winter commences, — their 
garners are filled — it is a season of leisure, es- 
pecially the winter evenings, and then is the 
time for their balls, parties, sleigh-rides and 
social visits. Never did I see more unaffected 
hospitality displayed, more real pleasure enjoy- 
ed than at these merry parties. They have 
earned the right to be happy, and right well do 
they improve it. But though I enjoy exceed- 
ingly these frank, social visits, yet I own it 
pleases me best to pass my evenings at home, 
in our domestic circle. Edward, I see the 
contemptuous curl on your lip while you ask, 
what charm there can possibly be in the hum- 


A WINTER IN THE COUNTRY. 


279 


drum circle of a farmer’s family that so enchants 
me ? You must not think of Colonel Gage as 
a farmer and nothing else. It is the boast of 
our free institutions, that talents, and worth, 
and energy, may claim their reward, let the 
station of their possessor be what it may. 
Colonel Gage was an officer in the revolution- 
ary war, and he has held civil offices of all 
grades from that of town clerk to senator in the 
State Legislature. But all these honors have 
never tempted him to relinquish the plough. 
A man he is, representing the New England 
character of industry, enterprise, intelligence 
and perseverance in its best light, because his 
course has always been marked by that high- 
minded integrity, which will command respect. 
(How I wish all our Yankees deserved such a 
report.) Then he is so generous, so truly hos- 
pitable — and so uniformly pious — Edward. I 
would take his chance of gaining heaven before 
that of any person I know. But our domestic 
circle. Allow me to describe one evening. 
I have passed many such, and instead of find- 
ing them grow dull by repetition, “ like a third 
representation” of a barren play, I look forward 
to each succeeding evening, with that expec- 
tation of entertainment we cherish, when a 
favorite actor is announced, from whose ver- 
satile powers we always expect new delight. 
But perhaps I ought first to mention our daily 
fare, which, by the way, is daily feasting. Such 
breakfasts and suppers ! The profusion of 
good things then set forth, would absolutely 


280 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


astound you, and be called quite vulgar in 
your city, where all the dainties are displayed 
at dinner. But I have the authority of Dr. 
Johnson for liking a good breakfast ; and for 
their suppers — why, on my own authority, I 
pronounce them in good taste. It is the c land 
of cakes’ here — that’s certain. To describe 
all the different kinds I have eaten, would 
require half a volume at least. 

But the evening — You must know Mr. Silsby 
always dispenses with my presence in the store 
after eight o’clock. He stays till nine. When 
I enter the sitting room the family are arranged 
in the following order. Colonel Gage in his 
armed chair, occupies the right hand corner be- 
yond the fire-place, his dignified countenance 
looking peculiarly benign and holy, as the 
brightening or falling blaze alternately reveals 
or shades his gray hairs, and his calm, thought- 
ful features. Nestling in his bosom, or play- 
ing at his knees, may be seen his youngest 
boy, the loved Benjamin of his old age, and 
close beside him sits his wife with her knitting 
work. She is many years younger than her 
husband, and still a beautiful woman ; but her 
greatest charm is, that constancy, that de- 
votedness of affection, that charity, with which 
she seems to be always waiting to promote her 
husband’s comfort, the improvement of her 
children, and the happiness of all around her. 
In the centre of the room, stands an old-fashion- 
ed, round table, covered with books, news- 
papers, a board exhibiting the royal game of 


A WINTER IN THE COUNTRY. 281 

u fox and geese,” and all the feminine appara- 
tus of needle-work. On the side of the table, 
(if side can be predicated of a round form,) 
next his mother, is the place of Master Robert 
Gage, the “ eldest hope,” a scholar, fitting for 
college, already ambitious of being a great 
man. Near to him usually stand or sit his two 
brothers, frolicksome fellows, whose glee over 
their game or their books, frequently awakens 
their mother’s reproofs. TW* rogues, however, 
pay little attention to her .. ft-spoken remon- 
strances ; but if they meet their father’s eye 
u frowning disprovingly,” or hear the slight tap 
of his foot on the floor, they are hushed as 
sleep. Opposite master Robert, sits the only 
daughter of my host, the sweet Catharine — 
positively, Edward, the loveliest girl I ever 
beheld. There she sits, looking so meek and 
innocent as she bends her head closer to her 
work, whenever I too earnestly regard her, — 
but sometimes — usually when I enter the room, 
she looks up in my face with such a smile ! 0 ! 
when I can flatter myself — as I try to do, that 
it welcomes me to the family circle, you cannot 
know how happy I feel. I am prevented from 
taking a seat beside her, because that is always 
occupied by her brother John, the youngest 
child but one. He loves Catharine so well 
that I cannot help loving the little urchin on 
her account, or otherwise, I fear I should real- 
ly hate him. For there he will sit a full hour 
after I am at home, and he will engross ill the 
attention Catharine can spare from her work. 

24* 


282 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


He it is, that helps her wind her tnread, and 
he holds her work-basket, and picks up her 
scissors, or handkerchief — and often, claims a 
kiss for his reward. I have really wanted to 
strike that boy ! There are always two va- 
cant chairs, left for Mr. Silsby and your hum- 
ble servant, and as I have my first choice, I 
take the one nearest to Catharine, but that 
is of little consequence while John remains. 
Colonel Gage converses with the ease of one 
accustomed to society, and he has moreover, all 
the fund of anecdote, which a revolutionary 
soldier and a pioneer in our new settlements, 
might be expected to possess. I have learned 
more from him of the early history of my 
country, more of the peculiar spirit of the early 
settlers, of their character, their labors and 
resources, than I ever learned before in my 
whole life. At nine o’clock, or a little before, 
Mr. Silsby makes his appearance, and then the 
four younger boys are dismissed to bed. I 
always rejoice when John goes, but the man- 
ner in which their father takes leave of them 
for the night, has a solemnity that awes, and 
prevents me from taking any advantage of my 
proximity to address Catharine. The boys in 
leaving the room, pass directly by their fa- 
ther. They pause before him, while he, in a 
tone of tender and touching pathos, dispenses a 
few sentences of reproof, advice, or commend- 
ation, to each individual. I never witnessed 
such a scene. I should think it would have a 
powerful effect on their tender hearts ; for 


A WINTER IN THE COUNTRY. 


283 


when, as he receives their bow or kiss, he 
adds, “ God bless you my children !” I often 
find it difficult to breathe freely. After a short 
pause, however, we begin to converse, and all 
join in the discourse more cheerfully, if possi- 
ble, than before. News, politics, literature 
and anecdote, with an occasional tune on the 
piano-forte ; the Colonel is quite an enthusiast 
in his love of music ; and the hour of ten comes 
ere we are aware. I should remark, that we 
always have apples and cider, and frequently 
nuts of som<? kind, during the evening, and 
furthermore, l cvonfess, that during the last 
hour, as the fire is gradually suffered to decay, 
we as gradually draw nearer to the hearth, 
and our circle contracting, I am at last usually 
quite near Catharine. I say usually, because 
whenever Catharine leaves her chair to play 
a tune, she seldom returns to it — she contrives 
to steal round to her father’s side, and seats 
herself on a low chair close by his knee ; a 
seat claimed by the little boy when he is there. 
I wish from my soul he would take that small 
chair with him when he goes to bed. 

I expect you will smile at what I am now 
going to confess — you will wish you were here 
to quiz me. So do not I. Though conscious 
I am acting rightly, I have hardly sufficient 
courage yet to stand the test of ridicule; but as 
one conquest over my own weakness, I confess 
that I attend the family devotions from choice ; 
that I kneel at prayers ; that Colonel Gage is 
a Methodist, and that Catharine says “ amen !” 


2S4 


AMERICAN SKETCHES. 


in a tone so soft, sweet and angelic, that it 
causes me to feel my own unworthiness more 
poignantly than would the severest reproofs. 
I never before comprehended what the dis- 
tress of Macbeth was, when he could not say 
u amen.” Yes, Edward — when I can kneel 
beside that innocent girl, and catch her soft 
whispered “ amen,” — as her saint-like father 
pauses in the aspirations he has been pouring 
forth, perhaps for my salvation — I fancy she 
always responds the sweetest then, though in 
the lowest tone, — my heart throbs and swells 
till — I believe — tears have vefoved me from 
the agitation of my feelings. But this agita- 
tion is not care, or pain, or discontent. No — I 
lay my head on my pillow in peace, everything 
around me is peaceful, — my reflections are 
all tinged with the Eden-like love and happi- 
ness that pervade this good family. u 0, eve- 
nings worthy of the Gods !” you may exclaim, 
while revelling in your round of amusements 
my apostrophe to evening would be — 

“ I crown thee king of intimate delights, 

Fire-side enjoyments — heartfelt happiness, — 

And all the comforts of this dear, dear home.” ’ 

# * # # * 

March 30. — ‘ You say I am in love , and that 
it is the deluding passion which imparts the 
“ Eden-like tinge,” I rave about. True, Ed- 
ward, I confess you are right — I am in love ; 
but it is a patriotic, not a personal passion that 
engrosses me. I am in love with my country 


A WINTER m THE COUNTRY. 285 

I was always proud of being a Bostonian — 
Boston was the cradle of liberty, the literary 
emporium, the seat of arts, eloquence and 
fashion. Europeans were pleased with Bos- 
ton, and allowed that we there possessed the 
advantages of good society. But still they 
ridicule America and Americans, and I — fool 
that I was — have acknowledged while convers- 
ing with them, that the interior of our country 
was yet rude — rude in its appearance, and 
rude in the character of its inhabitants. Ver- 
mont, especially, I considered, and reported 
as the Thule of our population, where civilisa- 
tion ought not to be expected. Edward, I am 
ashamed of my ignorance, and I declare to you, 
that those dwellers in your proud city, who 
have seen little beyond it,' are hardly better 
qualified to judge of the benefits of our free 
institutions and the peculiar character of our 
country people, than are those who have always 
lived beneath a royal government. All large 
cities must of necessity be similar in one 
striking feature — the disparity in the condition 
of the citizens. Riches, in the city, give the 
possessor a distinction, as surely as the privi- 
ledge of wearing a star and garter, and poverty 
is there degraded, and submits to a servile de- 
pendency, perhaps even to beggary ; though 
begging in our cities is usually practised by 
few but foreign mendicants, yet still it looks 
exceedingly preposterous to see such misery 
among a people boasting so much of their 
liberty, and equality, and prosperity, and happi- 


286 


AMERICAN SKETCHES 


ness. But the country, the country has none 
of this. Here is no ignorance, or want, or 
poverty, such as you have seen exhibited. 
Plenty of work there is to be sure, and the 
people work hard, but then it is fashionable to 
work, they do not feel degraded, and they are 
not degraded by it. They labor for themselves ; 
there is no landlord or tenant ; no hired dwell- 
ings ; no rent to press like an incubus, and de- 
stroy the sleep of the weary. They reside in 
their own houses, on their own farms ; they 
have enough, and to spare ; they are lords of 
the soil and the laws ; yet living in simplicity, 
and submitting quietly to all the necessary 
civil restrictions ; but well acquainted with 
their own rights, and watching the conduct of 
their rulers with a strict and scrutinizing eye — 
providing liberally for public education, and 
eager to give their children its advantages — 
and you will find well-educated, even highly 
cultivated and refined people ; those who would 
do credit to your “ good society in every little 
town or village scattered through this — as you 
think, wild and rude State. “ Give me neither 
poverty nor riches,” said the wise man ; and I 
now see the wisdom of his wish. The country 
is the strength of our Republic. Luxury may 
enervate our cities, but through our wide 
spread country, the healthful tide of liberty 
will still flow uncorrupted. There is no other 
land where the people are so free, so virtuous, 
so intelligent, so happy. I no longer connect 
the idea of American greatness, with the great- 


A WINTER IN THE COUNTRY. 2S7 

ness of our cities. Should a foreigner ask me 
to show him the great blessings of our boasted 
freedom, I would send him on a six months’ 
tour among the independent yeomanry of our 
land, — the peasantry , as he would call them 
Edward, I am a patriot ; I love my country, 
and — why should I deny to you ? — I love 
Catharine .’ 


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